A poet’s work should not be limited by rhyme, it cannot be shackled by language, it cannot be truly painted with colours, when expressed, only the surface can be observed but not it’s depth, it can be as deep as thought, the deepest chasm of the mind. Lost to the world but perfectly lucid in it’s place. On board a vessel of consciousness flowing on a river of subconsciousness. Quiet contemplation brewing, emotions churning, the drums of reasons beating, familiar voices stirring, like a crowded room, each with a direction of it’s own, trying to find a melody, trying to find truth, expressed in art, so we all wait for the quiet poet to exhale.
Waiting to exhale.