A poem
Is a hurricane
Dressed in paper;
A tidal wave in a tea cozy;
Pure,
Unadulterated;
Manifold
And Flowing, like a million streams,
Whole as the ocean –
As water and its waves;
Carrying a cradled gaze
Through hot-blooded hellfire
And cooling gentle mists,
Whose leavings dribble down the chin,
Like sumptuous bite
Into a ripe peach.
A story on the back
Of happenings,
Atop experience's rush –
Cascading, openly,
From now to nowhere
And back again.
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