segunda-feira, 16 de janeiro de 2017

On the craft

So I am seer,
mundane prophet
to whom the voices sing,
always welcome and dear.

A million times liver
in worlds of verse and line
where the deepest pain
might still sting,
but every sin is work of the divine,
as declared by the king
and the politician.

Avid drinker of goblet
holder of ode and sonnet
which allows my soul to remain
and pulse in every second
of beautiful eternity.

Alchemist of the untouched,
I take creamy, rich milk
from the toughest stone.
I wrap my most open heart,
in its broken pieces
- so they don't spread apart -
within sound made silk.

Is this curse?
Is this the muse's
way to bless me
for what I keep supressed?
Oh, it could have been worse.

To be a poet
is to be doomed
in the sweetest way;
dice roller in life's bet
for the higher the price
the more willing I am to pay.


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