In Poetry: Living Poetry

I have lived my life in the belly of the poetry. Each time my heart spoke, it connoted the rose of a ghost; full of know, essence and glow, sepulchral as a castaway boat. For truly, I spoke from afar off the current’s marks with accent that scent of frankinscence and myrrh. Mystic machinations of depth and verve – swerving, curving – enwrapping all I serve. My mind would swoon and soon I’d entwine with the grass, the fields, passing out sweet wine. I would die in the ground that I’d lie on sound, then germinate alive speaking languages unsurvived.

Sweet Sophia III

So I entered the farm, that great big farm and I heard a song, a sweet grieving song of grief. Great was the lament lining the song. Followed it I did to find Sophia, seated solemn atop a soul grave; weeping, tattered, worn by grief. She said her spirit was split, she said ‘o, my dear, I am weak’.

So I looked all about me, searching a salve. There was Sophia on the plough, Sophia at the mill, Sophia under the cow, Sophia in the soil; Sophia, Sophia, Sophia, she can’t even remember her name. Pouring with pity, I went to her and kissed her, kissed her I did, so deep and impassioned; perhaps, this will be, the Kiss of Life.