i prey on clusters of darkness
and trap some between the palms of my hands
i stake my fisted-games
over the lashing tongues of fire
i eat the meals of emptiness...
i am a hunter of words
and my heart knows me well
i hunt from an emptiness within
an emptiness, burdened with words...
an emptiness of everything.
there in the heart of space and time
is a broken nothingness of something...many
emptiness like the dusts of dreams
scattered in the heads of deep sleeps...
the emptiness in the rest in peace...
a poet’s weave is from the threads of nothing
from the deaths of broken and forlorn words
a roast of darkness over lines of lights
and in the beginning there is an emptiness
a pen and craving spaces...
a poet and thoughts
lines and then poetry...
and the poetry is good...
here lies the creation of poetry
moulded in an empty emptiness...
like the emptiness in the lifting
within the veins of a trodden thread
poesy is a loom of cadence
in the emptiness of sustained notes...
the loud soundless of soothing sounds
in the soft whispers of slowed lyrics
the magic in tender smiles empty and pure...
a foetus in bloody pools of emptiness
in the wombs of barren silence
in the pregnant echoes of lines...
in the breaths of nibs
of inks from fountains void.
i sit at the shore of waters
and i net not for fishes in the deep...
i fish peaceful stimulus of words
from the hovering emptiness
on the surfaced silence of shallow waters
do you know poetry dances in
the flickers of dust?
empty and light
in the slices of the sun rays...
i gaze at the mumblings of insanity
how words drool from the hotness of rants
i see poetry
and poetry sees me...
give me emptiness
and i shall give you true poetry
for in this emptiness
i am filled...
muses void, weaves of wordy wonders.
when your eyes see the world
and emptiness hemmed at the
dangling up down, down up
there...is a poetry to right...
i see poetry to right
in the emptiness of a careless loss
in the emptiness of death, dying and death
in the tongues of ruin of an empty fire...
in the emptiness here, on the slate of my heart.
words weaved in the threads of peaceful muse
lie on the bed of leaves...
in the beauty of emptiness...deep...
in the comfort of a fluttering emptiness
of a dancing dry leaf to the music of the wind...
now...i feel empty
an emptiness in the abundance of words...
like the emptiness of a mirror
without a face
i itch of poetry...
i fry the flies of failures
in the words of excellence...
failure is a forced poesy
excellence is a true muse...
a true muse... woven from emptiness.
i see dead emptiness breathe
in fluid muses...perfect for thirsts...
in the creation of light lines...empty-
in the purity on the slate of the tongue...
in the nibs of fine poets.
this heart moulds emptiness...
in the likeness of thoughts
in the clay of lines
he breathes in it figures of speech
and the emptiness becomes poetry...
be fruitful and multiply
have dominion in lines pure...rhythms
in rich rhymes...vast verses...sweet stanzas...
and let this emptiness...
your starting point to poetry.