HEART OF A POET

That jungled plane inside of my skull -

That is where the words come from -

That is where the magick (with a k)

Flows free & takes some of my pain away.

My skull is a cradle for the heart of this poet.

The blood will one day flow down a drain.

The flesh will be buried, or burned, or left

underwater, or in some other unplanned grave.

And the heart of this poet will stop scratching,

& etching it's identity down on this document -

Stop writing -

Stop dreaming -

Stop loving -

Stop beating.