Sterling

by | Poetry

Terrifying, how much poetry
  one can find, if you look
     in the right graves.

 

Ezra
show me nightmares
needed to understand
the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse
and I will dream them;

under northern clouds, I will dream
the rare beauty of a clear night sky
until all the stars go out
and there is nothing left;

under nothingness, I will dream
of the great, forgotten jewels;
glistening dew on an evening dress.

Show me, again, Ezra, mad Ezra,
the majesties and freedoms
of this madness;
show me them in dying,
if not in death –
in living,
if not in life.

We are dying, you and I,
(or dead already) and,
yet,
there are poets out there,
living adequate lives; creating
reflections and pressed ashes
of the most exquisite beauty –
and there are those, living
truly wonderful moments,
truly beautiful nights,
without writing
a single word.

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