Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Modus Operandi

Old poems are faithful things,
Little cottages dotting a hill
Often I fly past, 
Float above them
On my way to build another

A skipped stone gaining distance

But then,
Sometimes I step in
Fill my lungs with old inspired dust
Got to close my eyes at first,
Walk my hands along peeling paper 

Faded but infinite

Words stain the walls
This is a room for violent scribbles
The next all thoughtful chaos
Then sentences leading nowhere in particular
But collected in this room,

My concise pearls

Little glass boxes house them
Sitting huddled in a large space,
They are the first few blossoms
And they are few when my eyes are open
But dear to me

For, "Rome was not built in a day" 

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