The Poetic Process.


Liquid thoughts

are generated
by a seemingly

endless flow of blood,
that penetrates and opens

fluent keys to the brain cells,
flowing in electrical synapses
to the muscles of our arm.

Moving our hands

that grip the stylus pressing,
liquid thoughts onto the page.

"Therapy for a bleeding mind."

An outpouring of emotions,
scrawled on the pounded,
ground up remnants,
of trees we never climbed.

But their roots run deep,
back through the poetic renderings
in charcoal on cave wall dwellings,
mysterious etchings that
brought the good hunt.

They grip the soil

where Poe walked
in his tortured musings,
where Frost paused

in wintry splendour,
as his horse puzzled

over the comma in its life,

they flow in the gutters

of Sandberg's citys.



We are blessed with a gift

that only the gods can render,

we are their pens,

gripped tightly in mighty hands,

speaking parables to those

who cannot speak in liquid thoughts,

yet hunger to read


what the heavens can shed.





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