There's a placid place, an unfulfilled space, where poets roam, singly, searching, singing the mystery marrow through their poem. Words and phrases
in perfect places, fluid and flowing, forever inquiring something’s amiss, a message missed. Style and rhyme, ahead of their time, the poet pushes, uprooting bushes of mired mediocrity into uncommon harmony. Disquieted, restless, unlike the rest of us, driven by some force, compelled on his course, to pen the perfect poem, few of us have known. Comments are closed.
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