On the Last Day of the Swoon

poetic crossroads

On the Last Day of the Swoon

A small form of sadness embraced the corner of his eye.

the black pen dove into the inkwell of yesterday’s soul.

Everything was said with ink.

Summations began in silence,

Form was considered hypocrisy, 

Alien vestiges clung to vices moral victory.

All in all there was much to said

but mute words laid out the boundaries

the halcyon ended in a human race so rare

that poets & poetry swooned in their own blood.

Imagination, Reason, Mystery left the universe.

Reviews

[Alfred Kukitz]

Wow FT!

I often think that some poets resonate with me. You are one of those I am fortunate to know.

regards,
al

[....................]

Restrictions of any kind bind the spirit and mind and while there is a place for form, to write freely is, indeed, to live as such, free. If yesterdays 'embraced sadness' causes us to put ink to paper, then let the muse take it to where it need to be, not to where someone says it must go; let imagination soar through the mysteries of the universe with sound reasoning, not poetry surrounded by boundaries.

[Alfred Kukitz]

I wasn't sure this made any sense. I kept reading it over & over again. This one jutted out of me. When I looked at the whole piece I said huh?

Thanks Jacob!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

form very well could be hypocrisy...imagination? form controls it too much...but when we are free with the ink---and it just flows on its own...then we start solving the mystery of the universe...

j.