What wonder
granted me
this skewed view,
that allows me to
snatch words from
the endless scurrying
of my world.
Holding each restless
possibility in my mind,
till they roll
off my tongue,
in a syncopated
melody that moves me
to pen them
like wild animals.
Expressive creatures
giving voice,
snarling within
a white rectangle,
formed from the
pulp of long
ago dead trees
I have never climbed.
How does the
center of a tulip
compare to any
common adjectives,
and yet my hand
flies in a blur,
and poetry blooms.
Are war and love,
simply fodder
for the mind of
a starving artist?
often fed in poor taste
or suckled in
heated fervor,
and consumed by
the need to
capture their
impacts in
some new way.
What well do
we draw from
when we compose
endless, flowing
liquidic thoughts
poured out,
for others eyes
to drink from?
It matters not,
for this blessing
needs no rhyme
nor reason,
it simply is
my take on life
and oh, how
I delight in
stealing from
my needy muse.
" Walt had the Whit man,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
perfected the seering
of her food for thought,
and I have the art,
tis why I breathe."
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Submission Name: dumbfound-ment reiterated
