I Am Poetry

I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation of words cascading from a nebulous eye Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky, and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry fills a churning void where novels cannot wade, Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever careering from caustic career path to another new low, Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love. Praise no other; I am poetry.