Let the grip
slip. . .

pack up,
jump ship. . .

let yourself go,
and feel the flow,

the rises,
and pulses
from your heart’s beat
and lungs deflating,
then getting plumply bulbous. . .

life and love
strike up their fire
quite wildly,
from sparks
twixt our own earth so low
and heaven, so much higher. . .
and to our human sense,
in a seeming randomness,
not according to
to our calculations,
nor our proud desires,
nor even, what from
the crop most select,
which from
our highest earthly intuition
culled is.

Just as a babe
best comes to wake,
after the limpest,
sweetest sleep,
that follows suit
from the gently crooned
soft nursery tunes,
with which to sleep
it lulled is.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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