Some days poetry didn’t race through the roads of your veins
Or drizzle from the roof of your mouth
Or seep through the pores on to the sheets
Sometimes the words would not come
As if we were wandering hopelessly
In the footprints of some god
Sometimes the words were a phantom limb,
Like leaving home,
And i could feel each ache and bend every arch
But look down and see nothing
I would wander through these forests of words
For my little fraction of eternity
Collecting the peach pits of parables
And the fallen leaves of fables
Along the little stream of nouns and verbs
I had learned to swim in the syllables of
I grew to love them the only way I know how:
With a sweaty palm clutching a pen,
Coffee in the morning,
And sorrow in the heart
jia3ep. pixabay
