Never has speech been so sweet, never have the rules of poetry been turned on their heads. Who gives a fig about meter and rhyme when someone rises from the dead (literally) and replies to his own name?
Colors occupying the horizon
like behemoths out of control.
By my window, I try to
fish out the sun from the Erie
with burnt ochre eyes.
26 stories and a penthouse, my
cocoon. Deep within the caffeine
and sunshine, my eggshell of
words smaller than three syllables.
What is an iamb to me who
helps keep people alive? Two words
from someone who cares a discarded
bandage for the Bard.
Two words.
"That's me"
Poetry by Arti
Read 558 times
Written on 2007-07-23 at 23:12
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Poetry
Colors occupying the horizon
like behemoths out of control.
By my window, I try to
fish out the sun from the Erie
with burnt ochre eyes.
26 stories and a penthouse, my
cocoon. Deep within the caffeine
and sunshine, my eggshell of
words smaller than three syllables.
What is an iamb to me who
helps keep people alive? Two words
from someone who cares a discarded
bandage for the Bard.
Two words.
"That's me"
Poetry by Arti
Read 558 times
Written on 2007-07-23 at 23:12
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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lastromantichero |
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Rob Graber |
