Sunday, December 11, 2011

Poem 12/11/11

The ageless before me
continue to weep,
the wounds of the world
still fresh on their minds.

But these hurts pour forth--
lines, notes, words...
You call them "music, art"...
We call them our lives.

Of the colors that
bleed through my veins,
none become visible without
one simple heart stroke.

I could not be cut off,
removed from myself,
any more than I
could not write you.