Poetry is inside another time,
licking rust-flaked paint off some caged-curled dreams,
there is nothing here but echoes: slipstream
wisps that linger around yesterday's throw.
Maybe tomorrow will discover words,
look away, gather up the footprints left,
take them to fields where quiet language blooms,
solid moments shake foundation's present,
thumbs crack bones in sighs of disappointment.
New scenes wave blank passion at old sections
of individuality while flaps
track the stars blinking possibility -
ruin across vision - thought - reflection.
Inspiration laughs when everything seems
redundant in a world of poetic
shivers which shrug paper frowns through cold smiles.
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