A Poetic Exile Poem by Mark Heathcote
A Poetic Exile
What is there to berate
Life—form: Why equate
Has it not any meaning?
Every sap that's shelled-out
The husk, longs further, seeding.
'Every breath a waterspout
Leaps into death, pupate.
And is yet, still, dreaming
Of the wings of perfection',
To fulfil life's passion.
The gift of love's pre-emption...
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/19/2024 10:50:56 PM # 1.0.0.1119
