This is going to be a weird one. I haven’t written poetry in a long time, and it’s not directly relevant. I don’t want to turn this into a LiveJournal—but I’ve got to put it somewhere for feedback, don’t I? So here we go:
Lewis said that seeing beauty isn’t enough.
that we long to pass into it, to let it soak
us deep down to our bones, to become
a part of it. and yet when it stares us in the face
we blink.
my chest aches with resonance. i’m just an echo
what you see here is only the sweat
shivering on my arms,
the dewdrops that reflect a thousand shattered images
a second story window, a vast expanse of
nordic tundra, a bayou.
i cave in, a creature of habit
crushed against my self
praying that just for a second, this time
i can put on the glory of the morning star.
