Sep 2019
~for she who will know~
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
there is almost always a poem in the simple, where true art awaits your
sculpting...
sculpting...
