“To write is to understand all stories speak of life and death. We are christened by both, upon inhale the doves delicate breath of life, upon exhale the ravens breath of death. Breath, the gentle reminder of a poet/writers true christening.”
Before the poet lay boundless words, yet they fail to express endless depths.
A whisper fallen upon deaf ears.
What the blind hear, a continuos wind that speaks upon skin.
Only the deaf can see the calm beneath raging seas.
A wave from figures handless.
Utterances that speak of the sway within still portraits.
To write of emotions that rest within sculpted images.
3am has no end, the poet gropes for words at noon.