Ars Poetica

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. .