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The poet bleeds ruby red words to match the injury. Follow the stains to find out whodonit, cathartic agony before redemption, loose ties abound.
The poet’s words a kaleidospoke of spiritual colors come to life. One strand of hair can mean life or death in the poet’s world. Always bated breath for clues.
The poet’s heart and soul cannot be bought and sold. Above the fray, giving hints of the immortal. Never didactically explaining. That’s below his pay grade.
Look to car bumpers for slogans and clichés; poetry is a unique view of the quotidian and the extraordinary together in curvilinear form. No straight lines.
The drama of internal dialogue is an art form for those willing to let the words in. Chew on them a while, and let the digestive process be everlasting.
Ben Noah Suri
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