Poetry My Own

I know not what the falconer

would be without the falcon,

nor how miserable the fish without water.

But how life would be without poetry:

the brain would atrophy

like a burdened mind in nirvana.

If birds were without song

and  I could not fly on the wings of poetry,

spirits would corrode my soul;

the seeds of my mind would asphyxiate

like hapless larvae in an airless cocoon.

Though it caresses my ears

and stabilizes my sensibilities with smoothness like silk,

a dose of one line steels my spirit:

rhyming my life with rhythms of creativity

as I become a god into eternity.


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