First,
I strive for beauty
I wait for the bell to chime
the lightning to strike
Today, it seems,
the skies are clear
those chimes of midnight
are silenced
they boycott my breath
heap ash on the urgency of ringing
and leave me dizzy
in my decline.
But if the past
truly is prologue
it will all come round again.
Language will make its magic.
Sweetness will ooze from
the open wound
of my heart.
There will be words
in the order and rhythm
in which they were intended.
And poetry will breathe yet again.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
First,
I strive for beauty
I wait for the bell to chime
the lightning to strike
Today, it seems,
the skies are clear
those chimes of midnight
are silenced
they boycott my breath
heap ash on the urgency of ringing
and leave me dizzy
in my decline.
But if the past
truly is prologue
it will all come round again.
Language will make its magic.
Sweetness will ooze from
the open wound
of my heart.
There will be words
in the order and rhythm
in which they were intended.
And poetry will breathe yet again.
