Thursday, April 24, 2014

These poems are...

These poem are,
the breath’s of fresh air
from mother natures lungs
that has carried sailboats overseas;
prisoners from the chokehold of their cellmates
and back to the arms of their soul mates.
they were the kind of music
that marionettes bodies and makes hips
slither like snakes on native soil.
Where just women with beautiful smiles
and spirits that glow in the dark belly dance…
While fire burns across the river.
The fire that keeps a pilgrim warm in the winter,
but lures bloodthirsty predators into your bivouac,
or your heart, whatever,
it seems like the both of them always
Ground Zero without cover anyway.
But thats what these poems are.
Thats what a writer is.
Mere souls that tread the path of their dreams
even when it is littered with land mines…

And still it seems like they always come true.


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