I write as i breathe
in and out of nothing but air
and the words come to me
in exhalations of ghostly transparency
are these words mine
can i claim them as my own
like laying down a stake
in a goldmine of my own creation
my pick-ax and shovel
dull and bent from mining
so long in the same unforgiving cavern
where nuggets grow scarce
as true love.
and a poet gets claustrophobic
and the walls are damp
with underground perspiration
dynamite is risky....
the mattock handle worn down
from a lifetime of stumbling in the dark with this makeshift crutch
hours before the light comes through a new crevice
where the dissolution of limestone
oozes into your soul, and words
form when the rainwater seeps into the cerebellum
and poetry drips like splendid tonics of love.
the dissolution of limestone
the dissolution of limestone
If you do not change your direction
you may end up where you are heading
you may end up where you are heading
Re: the dissolution of limestone
... speaking of tonics, the best for love is bourbon -
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
Re: the dissolution of limestone
having a little as I type ming....
If you do not change your direction
you may end up where you are heading
you may end up where you are heading
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