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
iii. Poet (n)
I think, therefore I write
Cogito ergo scribo