Poetry,
the life of me,
the breath that buoys me,
keeps me over the darkest depths
of death, that which holds my soul intact,
and keeps my spirit whole.
I only wonder if that is all naught but an artists ego, itself covering the transparent reality that may be mine.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
Poetry,
the life of me,
the breath that buoys me,
keeps me over the darkest depths
of death, that which holds my soul intact,
and keeps my spirit whole.
I only wonder if that is all naught but an artists ego, itself covering the transparent reality that may be mine.
Thoughts such as this are what keep me up at night.
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