Poetry will save us as it has and always does It's poetry who catches us falling in and out of love A resting tent that nurtures us while our souls replenish, touching the universality of our own uniquely fragile stardust... Stroking our foreheads, breathing peace into our hearts, illuminating the beauty in everything and stitching it into a cloak of light, draped lovingly around our shaking shoulders; whispering cogently to us of its impenetrability, of our own sovereign safety, so that we may rise refueled our furnace stoked charged by the life force now burning outrageously bright in us to face the world and all its oddly timed surprises with the optimistic courage of a rising sun This day is mine! Poetry has saved me. Again.
How can the rain be without symbolism? How could it ever be that it is simply raining? How can I be calm when this water is surrounding me without relent? My heart's lament. I'm damp. Damp in all my organs. I want to whinge in protest I want to register with some authority, officially, my dissatisfaction with the appearance of mold on my timber chair Actually? Really? Truly? I'm to put up with this now as well? My heart is harbouring mildew. Black soot haunts my kidneys. My liver is beset by wet dust of the kind that causes hives in some young children Smoke it out, this ominous damp! Cleanse me of this creeping moisture... Smudge, Fire, Hot coals... I don't care. Just let me be rid of this soggy curse. I would rather that the workings of my brain crackle like dry forest twigs or a lively fire I would rather that the air in me felt light and crisp as sunshine I want to be crunchy to feel like a spark in me could easily ignite Yes! I want to be flammable or at least warm like a pocket potato or a passionate embrace... This damp suits me not. Enough rain. Enough.