Poetry
is like a flower:
its
conditions for growth are
invisible
perfections
and
its season lasts
only
so an hour.
Poetry
sweeps the air
in
searching for the sun
but
often finds
only
dust.
A
ragged wound
in
pain is spun,
its
petals blossom
out
and red.
Poetry
is like a flower
bled
of its essence,
yet
still it stands,
its
story to shower.
Poetry
is a flower, a flower
only
to show;
to
tell would be impossible:
it
has no mouth, only hands
and
to touch
is
to know.
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