PHOENIX OF SPIRIT

could a Heart made of Poetry
ever die ; into the ferocious
tied-lips of Life?
as a free bird —
poets are c l i ng
to me dear and sir:
as a bird
as life washed me clean
so warm and dry ; cleansing all
of the bluish wine-stains
and splattering’s of vomit,
we never lost the touch
that meant to mean so much
–dying embers of deliriums
and grinding rhythms of my
Love; i came to know the
skies and even the rock below
; i know the evening, and like
rising Phoenix of Spirit
as stress and fear roll back
as waves into the distances —
their eyes crying regretful
tears.

:: 07132020 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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