"you opened me up like a book & poured the poetry back into me." -amanda lovelace
I hear your call, May magnolia, you dye the wind with your temporal tassels, whose wave and shiver divert from that infinite presence, living shade of antiquity.
As a cloud you hang, rustic minaret, yawning to each my new daydream, hiding rusted rings like a handless king, and each overhead spoke with plea, give muse in a beat-down voice.
If it is milky wax of once-wept tears, or shed leaves pressed into words, you rain inspiration on my bleakness and enrich my weakness.
The incubus incubates and what spills from my cracked forehead is like what is read in me, the ink of a book I pen but you wrote instead.
A doting stone caught in your roots had named you after his embryo soul, after he saw it incarnate in your eyes, pink-white whorls innocent and wry.
I see your sigh, so I too will wait for those eyes in the storm where fall and spring mingle, where poetry flows from the death in now.
YOU ARE READING
Constructive Poetry Anthology
PoetryConstructive poetry: a new genre of poetry that uses insubstantial nuggets of writing as the seeds to grow more robust and lush wordscapes, and a collaborative opportunity in which the Wattpad community can lend a hand in propagating this garden of...
