Poetry
Is all I am

And the words coil around me
Like twisting snakes

But I think the snakes like me
They distort to fit the shape of me like armor

Anyone who dares come near
I unleash the snakes upon

Beautiful boundaries designed by passion
They defend me eternally

They let me hold hands with infinity

I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.

there are days i long for
the allure of philosophy.
writing.
a less personal affair,
but only to a degree.

rather than what i do.

such responsibility, to hold
another's fragile mental
stability within the palm
of my hand!

i am no healer, i do not
offer cures. no. the
gravitation i hold
is simply an

   e  
        c    
             h
                  o

of everything
which shall always
be nothing more than
the reverberation of my soul.

i am not a poet.
my mother tongue is not
within clever word
play or meter.

i speak the words of the
effervescent
cosmic tapestry
within the singing
of the spheres.

there is a quiet history in
that celestial symphony,
an Edda of instrumental
humming all that
was and shall be.

the moon
&
the ocean
remind us
that the things we know
will never
come close
to surpassing the things
that we don’t

Your soul is within
The universe is without
Both are infinite

So alluring,
the way the dark spreads itself
across a sea of shining stars
and makes us forget the infinities we haven’t seen.
I question myself
and I think about how the starlight we see
is a gift from centuries ago.
I’m alive in the dark.
I’m lethargic in the light.
And yet the darkest corners of my imagination
are the places I dread the most.

I’m alone in the light.
I’m a force in the dark.
My wrists tremble at the thought of
another night of telling stories
with ambiguous intent
and metaphors that strike my knees -
bow to the dark -
and yet I’m the only fool who reads my words.

The gift of the dark
is the great balance of life;
when time is stuck in one end of the dichotomy,
these little spots of grey pour out over the blue in my eyes.

And as the colors are muffled
like the road workers
covering up an artist’s graffiti,
I begin to understand why there’s two sides to a coin.

I’m alive in the dark,
tired in the light,
and the shadows of the night have become my favorite audience.