Poet-tree
A poet
And their
Daemons
Need time
Though forced
Alone
For never quite
Comfortable
With the rattle
Inside
Their heads
They crave
Company
To keep out
The silent
Noise
The whispers
The alarums
The realities
Which play
Past present
And future
Inside their
Heads
Endlessly
And if they can
Manage that
And not
Go pop
They will bleed
Their words
And the souls
They have swallowed
Taken
Inhabited
Gathered
And rolled
Into one
Which become
This
A part of you
All
Shared
Broken open
Displayed
A small
Bird's egg
Fallen from
The tree
Shattered
And smashed
And opened
In a beautiful
Yokey mess
For all of you
To
See
Dave Bradley
Wed 3rd Dec 2014 17:20
An interesting attempt to reflect the impossible complexity of what can go on inside a poet's head. I liked it, even though it is doomed to fail.