Thursday, May 02, 2013

The poet




The poet has a tongue
which seduces words,
intoning passion into decay,
raising troubadours
from the death of phrases.
There is butter on his cracked lips
and prophesy in his yesterday,
hindsight in his tomorrow.
The healing finger of his breath
fascinates, manipulates,
moving pictures unframed
by determined boundaries.
Singing with the howls of dogs
and undead tears
the poet listens
for the call
of syllables.

1 comment:

The Unknowngnome said...

Indeed we do.