the soul likes
when I dress him up like this:
few vowels,
more consonants,
syllables, and all the rest
that float
on the white clouds
of dreaming
on the red waters
of the heart.
he could hide, of course,
but would rather
show off scars and slashes.
naked, colorless being,
he needs
the glitter of language,
rhyme and rhythm,
similar, succeeding sounds;
he needs poetry’s depth,
beauty
and immortality
and the lucid glare of eyes,
substance
and stimuli,
to exist
to be more than a song
that plays
in silent frequencies—
so he flows—
from the deep of feeling
washes out burdens
like a mighty stream;
and unto paper
blooms up the slick and scented
petals of pain
like rain.
Heavily inspired by Mary Oliver's poem: "POEM" from her collection 'Dream Work.'
