Cinnamon

Unfurling the matrix of poetry, unfolding it's meaning and nestling it in the womb, the cradle of universal form, breathing in the meaning of words like censors of cinammon, playing upon the music of The Universe, casting forth letters in the mind like archaic runes. Fragments of cinammon scented poetry pierce the veils of Isis, seep past the eyelids like fragments of eternity, and the meaning of those words, they cannot be denied, as they are deified by the poet, graceful goddess of poesy and grammatical grace, looking upon the clockwork face of half forgotten goddesses and gods. That cinammon, that sensual sequence of words conveyed in poetry, it seeps past these every day eyes to my inner eye, scenting my thoughts with lavender parchment, calligraphies of cataclysmic verse setting THe Universe on fire with desire, breathed out like a giants very last breath I take the deepest of sighs, take in that cinammon and lightly smile, knowing that my words are my own as much as anyone else's is to anyone else, a wonderful sollipsism of verse sonnorized and alchemized eternally, nursed in the cradle of a poets life, made love to like the love between husband and wife. ...and I sit now, in the center of The Universe, scenting the thoughts of my poetic mind with cinammon, hoping to find that perfect sequence of poetry that started it all, the ultimate verse of poetry, The Universe itself, which gives this poet life...