poetry

unborn soul

this thing, craved
tho our wish’d be always
uncertain
having learned, since children
of hope’s wanton dereliction
our orbit-paths, paralleling
as might Saturn’s chalk-dust lines
within a prism’s bent-light paradigm
falling together, meeting hastily
and then dispersing
into nothingness
once witnessed collision’s distortions
these guileless verses, whispered into the heart
of an ashen-winged soul
tho yet to grace this darkened parlor
as it pivots in place
and as we cling to its barren sand
aye, she’d find me now
speaking in tongues
praying– in my ash-tree desert
on stone-cut knee
imploring– that she’d receive me
that she’d know me, once
this, my entirety
everything
I shall ever be
found, in all
that I’ve not written down
tho it’d exist, unspoken
thereby incomplete
and tho some squalid evenings
she’d find me weeping
into my poetry’s poverty-trodden squalor
dare I conjure
Yeats– he believed
in magic
the wishful fool
thus, why not I
believe
in thine abiding sagacity
aye, thine benign mercy
o ye– yet unborn soul?

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Eric

I've come to write.

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