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putting words together
scarring paper
is just that
if there is no heart
surrendered to the art

we need not write in blood
but must stir the blood within
engage the soul,
release the paradigm.
nurture the word,
play with the rhyme

there,
lies the difference
between the poet
and the scribe.
I proclaim to be both poet and scribe.... not that it matters....
both have a place....
both write the foibles and follies
of the human race.

somedays there is heart
and sonedays mere observation
of this world and it's slow building
conflagration....
so let us squabble and add twigs to
the fire....then we can stand back
and watch our own funeral pyre.
I was lost,
Never found.
Deep within this winter ground,
Its always cold ,
Where no light is found,
Broken empty hearts,
Lay all around.
Tears that fell ,
The wind that howls,
Through standing stones,
With words writ on them.
Like he was home,
Our little boy went back to stone.
Or she was loved,
Though she died to young.
our fathers here,
And we still do mourn.
Or mothers warmth turned to stone,
Yet weep no more for we are home.
^~~~~^~~~^


poets are in love
with things of pathos fair
the lure that draws the moth
to the flame's despair

the insect caught in amber
the mateless bird that sings
the colors of the sun that's died
the fairie with no wings

the gnarled, lifeless tree
grass o'r grave's slight swell
the stream that's choked with bracken
the sound of empty shells

the sweetness of the voice
that sings the doom'd femme
the consumptive Mimi
in Puchini's La Boheme

butterflies on velvet
stricken, gently spread
affixed with a pin
tho lovely, they are dead

the vampire is so sensual
tho their victims end is dreer
the eye that is the brightest blue

always sheds the tear


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2014
^~~~^~~~^
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