Fear not poetry
for it is ancients language
once spoken,
from it flows the hearth,
in rhymes and verse,
of humanity.
Sips of cloudy desires,
Milky moons of the menoads
dripping from my lips,
as sour'n sweet our embrace,
substitution as a pro :
It is not music
in neither the heavens
or in hells grasp ;
on earth was it spoken
it was the beloved
immortal was.
As muses encapsulate
me as a sandwich in layers,
were they the bread,
was I the drink and filler
to nourish spirit,
but this is not,
is not poetry, or verse
or a rhyme
but forms and shapes
thrice-thought
over it was,
as a triangular shape
stretched into a square by
their missing parts
as husband, wife and lover
to all three were.
such it began
and to such an end
it yearns,
as the muses wyrded
once more, one
against time.
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