Close your eyes count to three, it'll go away, it'll be okay, four, five, six open your eyes you'll be fine ten, eleven, twelve when he died, I lost my sight I lost my purpose, twenty, thirty, fifty I will never be okay. . . & that's okay. . .
You explored each crevice, pulled apart each door, burned your image across the waves, traversed every mark & every ridge like the roots in dry desert heat, you drank your fill and moved on, naked & embarrassed I now lay alone, I wish it was not so.
The precision is musical and lyrical You write it and it falls into place The craft and development can be instantaneous or time consuming But then you get it right there is nothing quite like it Heard it compared to an ****** but won't go there Guess things keep giving differently Being able to write and create Nothing quite like it The words find me and they sing their song differently every single time until it clicks, makes sense That's when it becomes poetry From this Poet's heart to yours