^-^  life is good.
Despite all the evidence, to the contrary.

Point** the finger
As 3 point back at you
Notice the speck in my eye
As sawdust clouds your view
Blame me for all your troubles
We will see just where that leads to

Poetry
stops
the brain
and starts
the heart.

I make up
conversations
in my head
constructed from the
words you never
say.

I still can't decide
if silence
would be preferable.

Light up our backs,
bonfire,
burn,
burn us down
until we float
to the ground
as ashes,
ashen dust,
till death do we
ignite
the lives of those around
us
like city lights
or stars that
don't go out.
Outline.
Framed.
Posture
picture
perfect
Hanging
in this moment,
immortalised,
ageless,
free
like the flames
which lick
the velvet skin of
night,
engulfing our
shadows
as we stand
with our backs to the
stories
they told

- children
of the fire.

What "it" is exactly;
The world may never know.
But through clever subtle suggestion...
I hope to bestow or show.
Let it begin
To some it pushes;
Others he pulls.
It's the longing of writers
And the desire of fools.
The artist must scratch it
Creation its only appeasement.
But the industrial man
pretends he never sees it.
It stabs at my feet
And rouses my sleep
Like finding the peace
In the crashing of seas;
Shore; it has a name
But to know it would conjure blame
And we can't have that!
Or "it"
So make.
*ART