He was a minimalist.
Like a sky without any stars,
a town busied by each our ghosts
or aims to breathe in a basin wide.
He'd often ask of his own,
why the water in his glass?
A perpetual indignation
of his life and what he made it.
He had often said to himself,
could one fully quench the desert?
Need bring its sand to an ocean,
send the fish up to shore
and fill the oasis?
He would wonder about his mortality,
or if his heart was half that of a man.
If his world was so small,
not even the spectres
would feast off of his land.
Small wonder, impossible took longer.
A little plainer, a little stranger.
Some precious little thing that held out hope.
Or played out part in form with great measure.
With every inch, a target of destination,
and every star he saw respired creation.
Sky without any stars amazes mind. Small wonder scribbles mind. Every star he has seen has respired creation. Brilliant view is wisely presented in this poem...10
With every inch, a target of destination, and every star he saw respired creation. a fine poem. one has to read many times to get to your mind dear poet..... thank u for your poem of deep imagination. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A refined poetic imagination, Scott J. Shepard. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.