Poetry is a river,
constantly flowing,
forever glowing,
always glowing.
It's a pen set to paper,
performing magic.
It's Houdini's last trick,
but it refuses to dissapear.
Even as books drown on dusty shelves,
even when poets are no longer losing themselves,
it is still here,
Permanently left in the marks that it leaves,
on brains, minds, souls and, hearts.
It's poetic, but that's obvious,
even when all of it's meanings are lost to us.
It's a bright sunlight night,
and it sits upon a flowers petal painted white by the moon.
it's time is soon.
Yeah, sorry about the late posting but, i did write this yesterday, just in my journal. I got sick last night so.... yeah.
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