The Poet

Softly falling somber sounds,

limber words that run aground

in rings of grey and transparent swirls

from the depths of consciousness.

Faulty voices stumbling off,

as the poet in sneakers is creeping soft

on tender wounds,

like patches on a satin dress.

Words emerge with crumbling breath,

called from the depths of secret holes,

teetering on the edges of somber sounds

as the poet’s heart emerges.

He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well – John Clare

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