Having toned and centered all will to this:
Peeling off the filth, grime and thinly veiled sins of writing:
Exposing a new viral skin, a candied armor:
poteat and swirled.
Old ways, crumple to the earth like wet dust,
emerge as a cataclysmic beam of energy,
magnetized, inhaleing the vigor, through my mind,
until a quazar of light implodes, sending bursts of thought,
into the Cartesian coordinates,
hanging tidspits, of poetic data
here and there.
My body quivers,
unseen, yet deep to bone.
I envision space, with dark pulsating ideologies.
Knarling them like twine,
I collect the alphabeted fog.
To form an adjective,
so connected to the attempt,
I must open my mind
and reach inside with care.
To touch that, which is forbidden,
and bring out into this world,
where it does not belong, so it will grace a page.
And then I sigh,
Does my heart control effort?
I turn and leave,
continuing to look at the blank.
Copyright © Sandra Hudson