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Poetry Pure
In my dreams
I envision
crimson dragons
leaving night skies
blood-streaked
in secreted havoc.
I wish to pray them closer.
But as luck
would have it
their scaly screams
are louder
than my
verse.
I fantasize
the cursed flames
spouted across the sky
like a furious paint
brushed in livid streaks.
Their muse
is darker, greater
than mine.
I wish to shine in their direction.
Envelop my skin
in the texture of a scorch
and I will learn
how to burn out
the embers of
residual language
to blaze
unadulterated anguish.
I wish to shatter verbal limits.
If ice melted,
if wind exploded,
it would be poetry pure.
No sense in
trying to harness it
through tongue:
Akin to the hopelessness
of ample sand
slipping between the fingers
of a fistful grab.
I think your Muse is brighter than anyone's. Noticing a lot of sand lately, anything to that I wonder? I keep reflecting back to the line " if wind exploded" that has so much power in it. There is your poetry pure. Nice work Alex, as always, Im humbled
Stay safe
Gary