Style and vision and sense of reality is what it takes to be a builder in poetry.
You have to be a infrarealistic craftsman to build your demonical-angelic way in this Hell-of-a-world!
Two warm grains in the eyes of the titmouse
We stretch our hands and flap-flap: is gone
The branch shivers
In its place
Look here
I’m building my afterlife before
My branch shivers too
But I am home I am always here
Dressed just in myself like the sword of Toledo
Although is almost September with fruits gone to warmer countries
I think I’ll take autumn and throw it to the ground
Michelle sorry for being late with the answer but beter later than never right? Look: what is intriguing is that any of the poets are building their afterlife before death and the outcome is that poets are watching in their afterlife and can be brought alive anitime by reading and refeeling their poems. Just like trees in the fall they seem death but still alive, watching. The titmouse that flyes from their branches is the poetry with his shivering warm eyes. Well, thanks for your thoughts and see you arround dear :)
Perhaps "..Quiet Storm" will help rekindle old flames buried and long forgotten or express the love so deeply locked inside of your soul longing to be released.
Regardless of where you may be found in love this beautiful masterpiece can be
This book represents a thirty-day period of my poetry journal. Each poem addresses
the dominant thoughts occupying my mind during the early morning hours of a given
day.
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