written by: S. M. Stouch
And when the page is sung, lifting from inks the blessed muses
of longing, the tremors of musings in verse.
This is the salvation of serenity – the enigma of lives
set forth withstanding an ache.
Adhere not to the sermons or the cyclical servitude of idolatry,
but from the bosom, the bestial wail of whispers – take credence
by the catharsis and bound its will to withering worthlessness.
For there is no creativity enduring, which is weighted by dogma
or nascence of dread, the emperor’s new cloth,
the pauper’s cloak.
And when the page is sung, life from ink scratched page is
lived with fervor and longing to adorn – to adore.
Such restless remnants of a perfection crumbling and cracked
the truest beauty of an expression – the unknowing vigor of verse
this munition of signs.
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