Thoughts On Poetry

What are words but formless wind, given weight and shape only by the meaning attached to them? If I were to send my breeze rustling into your boughs whispering of ancient stone pathways, would your bare feet feel the cool kiss of Spanish moss? If I blew into your sleeping ear the call of a night bird by the light of a waning moon and the sweet breath of night blooming jasmine, would you swoon beneath the wheeling stars? If the rhythmic breath of Mother sea could encompass the mere scratching of my ink pen, would you swim with a naked heart into the depths as Cassiopeia danced above you and currents of my thought pulled you deeper into the ocean of pages?

Me and my whispers of wind flit about the jungle shadows of this island, twining sensual fingers in the boughs of a banyan tree and stroking the blooms with a sweet smile. Occasionally does my breeze play lightly with the faint hairs of a lonely earlobe, but poets receive questions from the eyes of others more often than answers. I am left pondering such metaphors as “a pool of thought” in your iris, and wondering if it is deep enough to swim in…


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