The gilded edge of darkness…
What substance does the poet’s heart pump through
that produces such beauty flowing out
and brings back such pain in return?
What secret hovers on the edge of knowing
that a poet’s heart can see in visions,
that haunts him in his soul
where there is no armored defense,
but he can only share through rhyme and verse?
Blessed is the poet
that his pain can leak out through his pen.