Until A Flower Emerges - Poem by Mark Heathcote
Poetry is the multiplication
Of brush strokes painted in thought
In rhythm and in rhyme, spidery spun
Eight eyes on an octave line wrought.
Spinning; leafing-out all over quietly.
Digesting and dissolving internally
Or else they just hold me, uncontrollably,
Frenetically, silently, dangling almost; for fun.
Until a flower; emerges from a landscape drunken.
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