Should I throw a rock at your head,
Or should some ornate stone in passion
Be flung that it may open your mind?
There is a poem,
Natural in its state of emotional honesty,
And a bird can be on a branch crapping
On your windshield,
Or upon morning's first light
A golden bird gleams among
The verdant branches like
Emeralds in a feast of crystalline
Fields set aglow by calling stars.
      Still the truth of the poem
And its severed beauty is that it
Does not lie among the constant
Heart, that frail and vicious
Emotionally challenged furnace,
And the words are compared
Like a rare comet vs. a constant star.
       Holes in the words
Sap a poets blood, so he films them
With passions of flame and struggle,
And from fire to fire he spills
Himself within the pen.
     From here to eternity's moment,
They will never slay his thirsting,
From verses that hold him,
To words that overtake even the spirit
Where his poems are forged like some
Ancient blacksmith
Beating together steel wings
To fly the world over for one mans
Fiery thought come to life ,
And he is a star and a begging dog,
A broken hearted moon,
A fragment of dead things
And alive in his words,
Before he dies he wants his
Soul to shed its poetry.