I Owe It All to Poetry

 

 

Poetry has not been written for some time

Same rituals were performed

Alias the task was not triumphant

 

For some it is a war of trapped poison

Gift of poetry releases thousands of spores carried by wind

I am one of them

Having lived life with Cleopatra, there has been much dirt to soil

 

Tired does not describe what each cell represents

Present life was bed of rusty nails

Then magically offering appeared

Now there is diamonds in one’s eyes

 

Sparkling box was given abruptly; a fine summer’s night

Yes, there was much confusion

Migraine headaches when the flood gates opened

But now I reflect back and understand the whys

Endowment of painting with words is quite unspoken

 

Might be last verse put to paper

Bloody ink may never show

Sadness erupts from soul

But a new and improved version stands before

I owe this all to poetry!