Somewhere on a page There is a poem... Language needs a page to hold A poet frames the page With his words. Pain pressed into words Becomes a poem That's when language Comes undone In its rawness Organic, abstract, artsy even My dusky breath embraces Thoughts of you... Inside my dream.. The night makes a verse once more And all I know is that The pain makes me Not the happiness..like A shrapnel scraping my soul Like a machete wound In an oil painting My warrior nerves flame As poetry inscribes My electrified soul That is mine to keep A breath of gold Brings me home In the red rush Of unfinished dreams Stars' heal The fevered nerves Of my hushed frame . The Oriole sings in my solstice. .