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how paints a poet?
(inhale)
aim, undetermined ...
what purpose do I serve?
what is poetry’s primal essence?!?
my words only
cover pages that ghost
the spaces of better intention ...
that garland upon
my brow bleeds 'neath the
clawing shadows of
naked branches, thorns twisted
and braided with the
lightness of feathers, and pressed with
poetic care to let my
red ruin run ...
it drips with the weight of
indifference and
careless consideration, and clots
about my feet ...
cold witness, there, the moon -
it's visage smiles from the
surface of my weeping veins, puddled ...
such impeccable beauty
there in the coagulating remnants
of my mortality ...
and though it's a lie - just the
mirrored image of the
heavenly beauty that daubs
the great expanse,
it is enough ...
sufficient grace to squeeze
the last languorous
gasp from these tired,
grateful lungs ...
LIFE, I love you with my being ...
your breathtaking elegance
and your exquisite pain,
and I am naught but blessed to
have simply ...
breathed.
(exhale)
Copyright ©
Gregory Richard Barden
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