• soulfulstirrings 12w

    I am a night that blooms on the clavicles of a poet
    as poetry births amidst stillness neath stars
    sometimes sheer mirth that races through his veins
    and sometimes his despair soaking sheets of papyrus
    I am a veil neath which he hibernates
    and brings back to life his broken spine
    as poetry slides through his fingers
    lifting his decrepit spirit

    ©soulfulstirrings