Poem, grant me authority to write you
into being, a song of depression
converting to peace by the line number
realizing its worth is transcendent
to soar as a rocket ship with a man
whose wife was shot in Arizona
back at home. So, why when I speak of verse,
do I say it is not poetry, non,
it is Veracity, what else, what else?
The need to be alone and beheld, LOVE,
beyond my ten fingertips, the screen’s width,
it is me, a caramelized voice, sweet, burnt,
wet by the temperature of flames OILED
LETTERS. Peace for the Victims of Violence.
This Sonnet is a Fictional Work. Any perceived, apparent, or implied relationship to entities or persons is coincidental.
No comments:
Post a Comment