PAPER FROM THE WINDOW

Paper

flows in from the window

and as quickly as I pen a poem

its gone

from my desk

into the abyss of forever.

I rarely read them again

because

they are

nothing more than demure kisses

fleeting the lips of the master

faster than

they can be penned from my Soul.

Causal words refined by time

for all that time brings

to hone and edge is in me

but I

must free them or they will die.

How the artist

will become captivated by his art

never releasing

his children to the World.

Never fall in love

with your own words

and keep it as your best.

The end of the poet

is when it

claims you

from the thundering heavens

like a God claims His Creations.

The fast pace

of spiritual knowledge

is a river colder than cold water

awakening you

in a purple sublime form

to keep delivering

the never ending stream.

Cautious clouds above

will not rain

during your trials with words, and

hold its water for the birth.

Paper

flows in from the window

and so how will you begin your journey?

Will it be, a boy or a girl?