inspiration is cold
quick!- to mortal hands it takes
the gods know nothing of it.
ink is to the soul-line (the vein, in blue)
as the pen is to its creation (the vein, spilled)-and i find myself imitating
a style i read with love
fleeting, chopped,
i almost thought it amateur.
until the breath took me every line end
heart skipped- fluttering beat
cardinal wings described in words i never could
it seems they had projected their vision into my own chest.
the feeling of being used takes at first.
but then a new awakening
(better than the last few)
takes a soul,
and drags the body along with it.
behind,
like a shadow only seen in memories
a child's beloved doll
or ladybugs wings.
i think of intonation, but mainly, emphasis.
how do they see me?*
*(is it really me?)
the lover of the sea and of mothers wild flowers
(rose bushes, asters, dandelion weed- give me all)
the friend to the underdogs and the creatures beneath soot and soil
i hope my reputation precedes me.
...
(and suddenly i am reminded of a poem that replaced my heart with a weathered golden cage and the beat of a cardinals red winter wings and i think; how deep must an inspiration go to hit this hard?)
i wonder if ill ever see it again...
and the days come sooner this winter-
maybe the gods will finally learn-
to make haste, my inspiration.
YOU ARE READING
NEW HEARTS & COLD SEAS
Poetrywhen they seek you out because they know they can, because they know they can get away with it - anonymity is your friend.
