Poetry slides between the real and the ideal and lives in the mind like an infection. Much of it is not in the hands of the author but rather in the mind of the reader. Success is measured by the ability to communicate the idea. Sadly, most often a poem is merely whispered out into the dreadful silence...
When I sleep I ascend from the damaged incarnate into the distraught realms of the disturbing angelic to drift sub-ether through what remains of time. In the morning I am reinvested into the muscle and the blood of the mortified dirt crawlers. Looking for flowers one can not escape the beauty of the maggots.
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