Cogito Ergo Scribo

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without poetry. Then I realize… it wouldn’t exactly be life‚ would it?

i. Blank ceilings beckon to minds that

too often succumb to the saccharine pleasures

of life, only to find a bittersweet aftertaste

in want of something more.

There is something in the human mind

that longs for life to be defined.

 

ii. Cogito, ergo sum.

I think, therefore I am

A quiet, night-kissed fur face stealing away to a hidden place

with bright eyes that sing of distant memories still

outrunning the ever frosty winter chill.

A bon vivant with a taste in voices that embody

the spirit of millions yet has roots deeper

than those of the Shepherd’s Tree.

A creaking bark tossed by the resurgent storm of

a society always demanding more of the weak

and anachronistically bleak.

A chess piece, carved from brilliant ivory, caressed

by men who hold green paper and sands

of time and entire futures in their hands.

A lover to Gnosis but a slave to Pathos

and a beating human heart from which

Art’s arteries bleeds curiosity.

A startling flicker of light that in the

asphyxiating abyss came

before the ashes devoured the flame.

A speech scrawled in haste before

the ink ran out and never

even delivered.

 

iii. Poet (n)

I think, therefore I write

Cogito ergo scribo

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