a poem for today, 9 February 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of ten sentences and its image]
Butterflies eat dead people.
Truly, words are a dangerous thing.
Only snatches of dialogue survived the blast.
Let it flow so that you will preserve the bag.
Everyone wants to feel attractive.
The stones too know how to scream when need be.
The word has its origin in the prefix cis, meaning "to/this the near side," which is antonymous with the prefix "trans."
It's like fitting the wind in a box.
The reason we go to poetry is not for wisdom, but for the dismantling of wisdom.
One cannot refute an eye disease.
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