No Wonder
Some poets argue, lost in drowsy thought:
Uncharted art awaits artistic act.
The pencil kneads the picture's pitcher. Pressed,
Like gossamer stars anchored in the dark.
Mutable frigates crux the fishy night,
Till fallow shores sprout into seedless paths,
And right up into their headwaters flow,
And spacetime's flux—it's kinda very sweet.
Zygodactylous feet resolve the mood,
Or onyx stones absorb the dying light?
Safe enclosures or emerging landscapes,
Roaming hearts or the debris that's been grounded?
Darkness invites rot in secluded peace,
While woozy artists paint their lives away.
Uncharted art awaits artistic act.
The pencil kneads the picture's pitcher. Pressed,
Like gossamer stars anchored in the dark.
Mutable frigates crux the fishy night,
Till fallow shores sprout into seedless paths,
And right up into their headwaters flow,
And spacetime's flux—it's kinda very sweet.
Zygodactylous feet resolve the mood,
Or onyx stones absorb the dying light?
Safe enclosures or emerging landscapes,
Roaming hearts or the debris that's been grounded?
Darkness invites rot in secluded peace,
While woozy artists paint their lives away.
This Poems Story
Like a kid piecing together a puzzle in the dark, poets grab whatever words they can find and try to make them fit together in a way that tells a story. Sometimes the words come easily, like water from a faucet, and other times they have to hunt for just the right one - but in the end, they\'re just trying to make something that helps explain the confusing stuff in life.
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