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Poet

I wonder what it is,
That makes more or less sense,
Than any of this?
Tracing days, and footprints,
Drawn, between two lines,
With a violent purple marker.
Questioning, in metaphoric streamlines,
As I succumb to a prepositional alter.
And other times, cross pages of conflict,
Of beauty that I dare not hold.
Or verbs that I constantly inflict,
To set muse to a self-tortured soul.

A contest entry

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Comments


  • poet2angels gold member
    October 8, 2007

    Edit | Reply
    Wow so intense....
    Thank you for sharing a part of yourself!
    Lynda