Poetry Collection.

"Midnight Portrait."

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I.

A poet sits by the edge of the lake with his toes in the water,
a pen in his hand and a page in his lap.
He looks out upon the moonlit surface of the lulling waves
and imagines the stars that ripple distortedly within its surface
as the crystalline tears that he cannot bleed.
Within the dullness of his head he imagines a feeling that he cannot feel
and envies the maternal Earth for Her simplicity,
for why must a poet have nothing to say,
and why must a poet write unwell?

His heavy gaze trails down to the shore
where the waves of crystals lap gently at his feet,
and he knows
that if he is a reflection of his poetry
and his poetry a reflection of him,
then he must not be written well.

II.

The poet sits by the edge of the lake
and closes his eyes
and bites his tongue.
The lulling waves of his tears lap at the edges of his eyes,
threatening to spill out as the crystal stars
of the midnight sky of his poorer poem.

There, he imagines the sadness of his soul
and the inadequacy of his being as
the Milky Way,
composed of the tears he does not allow himself
to cry—
the simple tears that twinkle in the
darkness of himself
all the same.

He imagines the darkness of himself as the universe—
the universe vast and cold
and filled with infinite complexity and rich creations.

He imagines from the darkness of himself
the woven tendrils of a midnight tapestry

III.

and he writes it down upon his soddened page.

As the wisping tendrils of galaxies does a
blurry smoke sift betwixt the crystalline stars
like shark teeth and grain.

He writes of the dust and the particles
that compose his body
in a mediocre melody
trying too hard to imitate
the symphonies of quantum physics.

He is a horrid entropic force—
the universe has taken from him
the flow of his energy
for the sake of its own beautiful vitality.

He no longer works,

he no longer learns,
grows,

lives.

IV.

Tiny humans composed of dust and particles and clay
are painted green for their creator.
How quaint are their cries,
their little feet hopping along the tabletop,
hands outstretched to what lies—
Ha!—
lies
beyond the sky.

Such sweet ignorance,
desperate for the divinity of God.

What precious little creatures
that twist the knife of humanity into their chests
in their quest for vigor and life.