Or is it?

by kholinar

Poetry is
origin and meaning,
twisted and terrible,
forged to steel
by delicate fingers
in hearts like novas.
It is feather haired
infant cries,
gentle curved
sensual sighs carved
by knarled knuckle elders
as their breath fails.
Poems are a spotlight
that we drift down
like dust, our souls
illuminated as we fall
to earth.
Poetry is root
and poets are leaves
that turn and fall
and break.
And when we’ve
turned to ashes
those roots still
penetrate our being.

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