Time is a slow physician.
I never believed its healing power
Until I tried to write an angry poem
And found my anger had left me.
I tried to dive to the depths of despair,
but I landed in the shallows.
And as I stood with firmly planted feet,
a song rose up.
A song of beauty and of joy.
A song of strength and of peace.
A strand of dulcet tones spiraling to the heavens.
As my ears delighted, I wondered,
What creature could create such a melody?
What voice could ring so true and clear?
With a wisdom brought by slow-healed pain, I realized
I am the singer.
-- April 2007
Poetry is a cruel bitch
She demands to be written longhand
In bed
At 2 a.m.
-- April 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment