Grace in Diction

A thought on what it is to write poetry.

A poem should be a disconnection between memory and experience, 

kindred calms and panic moments.

A departure on winds of flame underneath the tinder,

of dark skies. 

Single verses should find salvation against the whistling scythe. 

Not to be dismissed in disgrace, 

nor composed as the central mark of all eyes only to have perception overlook its genius. 

I would believe such prose could turn sight inward, 

gone down into their hearts to see what they can remember. 

I would invite the lyrics of melodic voids to bear

witness to it. 

This motionless expression of poetry.

The seed of which can carry passion on wings ablaze with day dreams, 

while its shadow, 

following due course, would cast the sky into purple dusk as 

solitary souls sang eulogies to the stars. 

Nothing is deceived in the speech of scriptless verse,

of imperfect sounds.

The distinguished mentor and welcoming listener, 

still whisper the melodies what must be heard, to invisible audiences. 

Finding satisfaction in expressing the mortality that is,

the regrettable console of eternity. 

The art of pain,

the ever lasting love, 

the glory of "what could come next" and how skies could be so inclined to beautiful brilliance,

if not so divided by different hues of blue.

Alas, I digress, and rather acquaint myself with a universal cataract...

Of cut flowers, 

and the forgotten worth of silence.