Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Poetry Is...

a fever, sung

a slow-working medicine

one distilled thought

the shortest essay, and the longest version of the story

how we remember

a last resort

annoying, poignant

sand in your eyes, balm on your skin

a splash of water, a driving rain

a jump, a leap

a whispering wind

the moment you know that

you couldn’t have said it better yourself.

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