Thursday, 8 February 2018

the birth of a poem

closer to the page 
      blurs the sensation
       from the shoulders of my neck
                this soft thought 
                          in tissue disappears 
             in a thickening pool of tears
an illusive thought lies outlined
by such common words
              common in saying but in
    thoughts tiered in laying 
                             in staying                               
in the depths 
of a whitening page

my palms splay out slowly
my face sinks down into the kiss of it

it drains some well of thought
              somewhere
the blood pulsates in the neck
 of the woulds where
      the heart bleeds for the love
 of a kiss kissed page

         it does not taste
               it is not the
smell of it
     or the thought
     or the tingle
     or the   the
          the so what of it

                    it is just the hit
that stuns the somnambulant 
that undoes all the restraints of mind
         to waken
         from a poet’s dream of a poem
written in invisible ink
                     you think 
          was it you who swooned
              and left to write
              and  up to down
a watermark upon the page
                       upon the tideline of words 
                       so slowly slowed 

             under the lines stowed
and down in exhaustion shoulders droop 
and in exhalation ask 
what is it that this satiation lays
      in this thin mist of lines 
          soft upon the page 
       that may still enrage
           at what was stolen 
from the eternal loop 
to lie 
      finally asleep 
            upon the page
to await a prince’s kiss



     

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