The Poet’s Soul


This is a poet’s soul,
An endless stream of vivid colours spinning in a Pyrex bowl;
A soul that’s drawn to autumn lanes;
To window spills and summer rains,
The deepest frost-enveloped nights
Filled up with cracker box delights,
And wraith-sketched landscapes half complete;
The seams where juxtapositions meet;
And half-snatched, muffled conversations
Filled with secret connotations.
This is a soul that has no need for any orchestrated tears.
It senses more in every breath than most experience in years.


15 responses to “The Poet’s Soul

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