I dived To reach core of fire Burning heat With revolving lava That keeps the earth together But for me I wanted to be Face to face with poetry To ask it Why does it tremble? The world that I'm in As I plunged Into the water of my soul Tasting the burns of heat and cold On the edge of poetry flame I uttered two precious words "Poetry Me" My soul was so taken back Hearing my pleading heart But then I continued to urge For the poetry flame To even love me more At every poetry touch Escalating my being high Then with swift of its reach In countless brush With electrifying fire To poetry me endlessly
Beauty clad in deep passion, discovering itself in language, which, in an unexpected turn, discovers and finds itself in notions that exceed its frame, expressing itself in phrases that mirror notions and emotions beyond it.
I agree with Charlie. I like the idea of poetry as a verb, an action where the author also becomes the object that receives the pleasure of words of fire.
What a interesting little thing. Poetry becomes a verb, and a raging volcano all in one. It's firey and passionate, and lovely. I think you have been Poetried. --Charlie
The quaint little town of Pinecrest in the mountains of Arizona faces its most harrowing challenge yet—a chilling murder that sends shockwaves through the community.
Marcus Lee, Pinecrest's newly appointed police chief, finds himself at the cente
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