When the stars confirm the mystic vow of the strangers broken heart, to not be loved or love, to crawl into the pit, to stay in the dwelling of the scars of the hurt. The poet rise into the moon of silence, that of which is me and the artist fall into the grip of color that is no more than black. Then in time shinning streams of lonely color burst into a painted rain and write the poets songs with laughter that will collide into the hole and fill it with inspiration. Grasp the new flowers melting in the palm of my hand and feel the touch of the petals as they lay.
Posted on: Tue, 10 Sep 2013 03:48:22 +0000
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