Photo by Matt Seymo ur on
poetry is a sharp match
and like me, you might find it necessary sometimesto lean in and feel the warmth of images struck
against the day’s cold stone, or, when metaphors
sprinkle tinder on your smoldering soul,
you might blow it softly back to flame.
Huddled around a flickering poem, we might find ourselves
warming our faces, shoulders touching, hands outstretched,
we might forget that
poetry cuts, too, like a knife
through the ropes that bind,
like a sword.
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