where do the poems come from
I
don’t know I said
ringing
the sting of Summer
in
the heat that brought
the
death of Spring
with
a pyred atmosphere
that
thankfully burned
the
remnants of questions
that
lingered unanswered
like
hers just a moment ago
while
questions raged
inside
me I was too polite
or
too meek in seeking advice
to
ask them out loud
am
I my own live fire exercise
do
I like to take the bullets and bane
do
I like to stay insane
so
that I am an example made
am
I a jolly roger exemplified
am
I just another narcissist
hiding
beyond reason and
wrapping
every colorful sound into silence
I
don’t know why
I
don’t know where words come from
for
certain things that ring deeper
than
sometimes I am willing to go
I
love rabbit holes
but
sometimes the field of distractions
take
traction and hold me bare
giving
my hesitancy reason
to
stay right there
for
if not knowing what words
might
fit the suckle rhyme
might
gather every part
of
my bleeding soul
then
shoot me
full
of dictionaries and
duct
tape my mouth
bind
my hands and
sharp
ember stick my eyes
just
leave my nose alone
so
that I can find
where
answers don’t need
words
and things I’ve sought
to
taste time in its
constant
ripe savor
when
memory and
a
moment held and
infinity
come together
line
by line
in
tined mindful bites
in
mouths filled
with
the supple waiting
of
a Winter’s loam
in
the richness of
my
poet self
I
am the meal
I
am the poem
EJR
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