The most profound speech finds my lips
Where there sits no audience
The songs of angels and the voices of sirens beneath the ships
Deluge my mouth where there is no crowd , but silence
Why does he know so much, who will not tell?
Why does he feel everything, who refuses to express?
In a house with no doors and windows, how can one be well?
So he destroys to permit egress
Through that narrow, imperfect hole he passes
Staining its edges scarlet
Appearing unto lifeless grounds and masses
But he is quiet and content as he understands brokenness to be the song of poets
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POETRY ; MOUTHPIECE OF ALL
PoetryPoems of the sad, broken, the joyous, the wanderers, and the eternally pondering minds. Everything that so besieged us since the inception of time, is an unwritten poem. Even though dead in the eyes of mankind, poetry can rejuvenate this flourishing...
