The Living Poem

You make it up
It starts like this:
an empty room
and paper to write on

Quill in hand
the peacock’s feather
an eye upon the world

You are the optical
On your bones
are fleshed the words
of your very seeing

Vision, your deliverance
crafts the songs
you sing to life

You make it thus:
the winds on reasoned sands
gulls wheeling above

the waters of mind:
mermaids, coves
and drowning men

It starts with the ebb
of experience
that change in season

Works of hope
galleon landfalls
of imagination

It starts with you
and the tides
of desire

It starts with you
on quiet shorelines
alone and looking out to sea
alone and looking inward

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