Reading poetry, getting
there, the substratum of the ground, close to the wetness, feeling your own acuity.
Reaching further to the heat and fumes of the vortex of earth. Obliging with
fear to the magnetic sadness of the boiling geyser underneath, and coming out
to the surface to breathe fleetingly.
Relentlessly searching the tracks left behind by the poetic designs, and longing for sustenance. Your heart pounding, your legs pushing forward in trembling gusts. Your pursuit is raw and blind, nothing but language will become your guide. You must entertain the thought of staying there, and read the night in its intense embedded howling and inbred echoes. You’ve encountered verse that is not about purity or the desperate search for love. This poetry will get you to enter a cavern, and meet ancestral sounds of human bones beating the drums, resounding in the darkness, flaring.
Ah, you signed a deed to face your own fears. You can only deter your thoughts by closing your eyes and stop reading.
Relentlessly searching the tracks left behind by the poetic designs, and longing for sustenance. Your heart pounding, your legs pushing forward in trembling gusts. Your pursuit is raw and blind, nothing but language will become your guide. You must entertain the thought of staying there, and read the night in its intense embedded howling and inbred echoes. You’ve encountered verse that is not about purity or the desperate search for love. This poetry will get you to enter a cavern, and meet ancestral sounds of human bones beating the drums, resounding in the darkness, flaring.
Ah, you signed a deed to face your own fears. You can only deter your thoughts by closing your eyes and stop reading.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment