Friday, April 26, 2013


A great songwriter once wrote,

“I am empty and aching, and I don’t know why.”

The emptiness of a poet is a vacuum that pulls,
By centrifugal force, upon the beauty of the words.

The poet is always drowning in the melancholy that is reality.

His fellows are unable to perceive the achingly beautiful things that he sees.

Lamenting with loneliness at the isolation of the pure vision

The poet cries.

And he writes

As do I.

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