I Am the Sentence Lost Poet

I am the sentence lost poet who has forgotten names hollow versions of imposter me with little left to crawl inside the words. My life is shaped by subtle arts stripped from the mirror of reflected lives – tribes of non-poets nonetheless so sensitive and fevered with promises endless beginnings – seeds and eggs - the future of great intentions – all the while roughing it in urban virtual realities shaping what is left - this ghost of poetry… I am a tongue-tied sycophant who reads in awe the riddles and flights of Charles Wright the forests of Atwood the ligaments of Don Domanski and daily morsels everywhere I am the diarist biographer of lesser fates my multiple lives adding to one and yet and yet this place is rife with roots and webs connections and comparisons that pull understanding far beyond all sight I live a moment high in flight while darkness dies tonight the poet’s moon is a silent solitaire while we children of the gods bleed within nightmares and plagued famines the ying and yang – brief lives balanced by eternities of death it is the puzzle of the ages with belief to break the cycles down life is indeed too short to fight when wealth is all around we are impaired by peers and popularity we need the stars to burn inside ourselves we need the stars to make our aim more true we need the stars to shine I need to shine