I write the words that do not rhyme. Poetry it's called. It called me. Do my words scatter in the wind? The breeze that takes the poems Blows through Spring, Summer and Fall. Am I part of a rainbow of particles? When you read me, the real me, do you scoff or do you ask for more? Is it the bare soul that offends? I travel leagues as a digital dot On a web of transparent knowledge Looking to see if I can become a snowflake. I travel to far away lands, to the seas. Each stop I leave part of myself And take part of you away to show. No, not the lover, but the friends That are with me for a breath Before the wind scatters us again. I write the words that do not rhyme. I am a poet, seemingly out of time. From the safety of my sofa, I watch. The world frightens me these days. Words are harsh once again. Dreams are dismissed as lies. But I will continue to look for Those who hold the end of the rainbow. Have you seen me passing with the wind? Catch me and hold me. Hold me close. Take the hole in my heart and fill it With a sense of purpose. Please? Am I alone? Do you see the star I came from?
GAME | STUDY | SAD | LOUD | BECOME
The rules are that I must use the above five words to create a poem. I can use any form I wish. This form is called a Shadorma, a non-rhyming poem using six lines. The meter is 3,5,3,3,7,5.
The game starts Before dawn in sad Lonely light. Where study Becomes a secret yell, sound Is a loud whisper.