...and who never came with a book of poetry <br />no matter how small except at Easter time <br />to welcome the spring like a homework task <br />for the school of death at best when masked <br />in points and counter- dissimilation attitudes <br />uncompromised by the timidity of so innocent a light <br />smashed by too many windows <br />playing he games of wholeness <br />when nothing in reality could reflect the glass <br /> <br />...and who never learned anyhting from mistakes <br />but took them all and put them aside <br />so that someone else could call that life <br />while erraneous they knew they'd live forever <br />under the names of unknown stars <br />than never thought of a single rhyme <br />in dots and joints counting the syllables <br />where no word could find its place <br />to live long enough to pronounce <br />the syncopal nature of things most sublime <br />bathing in their pauses in the realms of freedom <br />with no fear to share with so much to dare <br />the rise and fall of the moon and sun <br /> <br />...and who called the waters by the name of souls <br />heavily dripping in wet slides of cloud dust <br />humidity and mist being the only sign <br />that the things ever lived and called themselves <br />divinities dainties gods of now broken lights <br />pouring down clay made caleidoscopic images of time<br /><br />Miroslava Odalovic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-who-never-came-with-a-book-of-poetry/
