No, nothing, but a poem.

Tue, 07/12/2016 - 12:43 -- hafranz

Words flow and ebb

and I feel them 

more than the others.

No pain

No color

No light

Can be heard in my words by them.

My voice is oft ignored

the letters form a web

and I struggle more than others.

But in the world 

of the poem

there are no others.

No letters

No struggles

No web.

Nothing to pull me but my own emotion

in a tide of language

spilling from my hands onto the page

warming in my pride

burning in my rage.

A poem rests when I am done

with the words of the world I had won.

I can see

No terror

No others

No ignorance.

Nothing to fail but my own heart pure.

Maybe someday I will inspire,

ignite a flame, a burning fire

in another

to see what I hear

to hear what I see. 

And like those before me

on their long blackened pyres

I will leave behind all

No death to the dust

No loss to the pain

No lack of darkness

Nothing but my own poem.



This poem is about: 


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