Poetry

Poetry speaks.

         Some like to rhymes, some like rhythms, some want words to explode with joy.

I burned my life, that I might find

A passion wholly of the mind

Thought divorced from eye and bone,

Ecstasy come to breath alone.

I broke my life, to seek relief

From the flowed light of love and grief.                                                                   

With mounting beat the utter fire

Charred existence and desire.

It died low, ceased its sudden thrush.

I had found unmysterious flesh—

Not the mind's avid substance—still

Passionate beyond the will.

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