Friday, May 23, 2008


In deep despair
when there's none to care
when I'm trapped or scared
pulled to pieces, pulled
dead, battered, broken
and all alone.

Then, Poetry, it is you, my friend
it is always you in the end
to lift me, to save me, to cure and to heal
like soothing balm on open wounds you feel
you take me to beauty, to ecstasy
to moments of perfect epiphany

I owe you much but little can I give
I strive to recah you but little can I climb
A humble request, oh, poetry, do not leave this child...

may 2007

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