From Mud, To Flow

Surely, not every word from these lines of mine, Have filled your very soul with the strongest sensations The very sensations that stirs the lip to quiver, The back to shiver, and the eyes to glitter, No, these words move many souls, Though none like yours, none like yours… You have felt nothing from these bleeding words, Felt everything from the outside world, In your sphere of existence, I crawl into the crevices, My poetry running cold like my thickening blood On the sidelines, the gutter water reaching the mud Like a pure little stream down a mountain, In the speed of many a forgotten fountain, These words flow right on by, Out of the ground, straight up to the sky, Into little shadows from the corner of your eye They are not meant to stick, For even the mud that once grew thick, Is watered down from on high, Inspired by muses on their shackled way to die Surely, not every word from these lines, Have touched your very core, Not one little word, not one of my worlds… What if I moved you just once again, As my love refuses to grow thin… I reach you….evidently too late Nothing can take you from this maddening state Patience merits death, As words merit power In this gutter, I never knew the strength from filth Could take me to the top of the mountain That continuous flow… That connected souls could only live to know…