in bitter watches of night, poet is alone.
alone and yet not, for he carries with him life he lives
in memories, some broken, others nary a mar. He is physically alone
in deepest sense of word, meat that drives
passion, the words that need released, Can they not see
each poem is a cry, a blood curdling scream to walls of time?!?
they will never know, true feelings poured into words
laid down, spoken to keen ears of night. It doesn’t
do to tarry here in this place few ever reach; this zenith
of emotion, present in us all… though dulled by draggle of life.
Heavy with emotions and feelings of unwont, he remembers
from whence he came and realizes rest is unknown.
Catharsis is reached, ere sun rises…
One thought on “#453”
You’ll notice the more you let go of American politics, the quality of your work improves.