Saturday, September 3, 2011

The matter of [he]art

Turned thirty-one paces,
running from the start, 
tried to hide my traces,
hoping to stand apart.

But at end of exposition, 
waited the matter of my art,
she was a silent musician,
anxious to play her part.

Discontent with the silence,
with the check and the chart,
she assailed with unseen guidance,
shuffled hesitation in a cart. 

Now through all the troubles,
the poison and the dart,
I'm casting out light bubbles,
catching discarded hearts.

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