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May. 26th, 2015 @ 03:11 pm Poem - Fae Lines
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Tags: , ,
Spontaneous creativity, no matter the form, just happens. In its wake is a fog of memory, the artist wondering where the creation sprung from. I experienced this when I was blogging. I am even more experiencing this as I put forth poems each day.


Fae Lines
Poem for Day 146 – 20150526

On this morn I awake to read
my past acts of written poetry.
I do not recognize what I wrote,
as if it were by another hand.
Sleep writing while fully conscious,
the words spill to page unconstrained.
The outcome is a stream of thoughts
stretching to time’s horizon.

Sample the spilled ink of past poems,
residue of joy, tears of pain,
bloodshed from wounds self inflicted,
damp the quill to scribe words shared.
I follow the trail to find therein
remnants of my life left behind.
Follow the spoor around the bend,
words reveals the self held within.

Too much truth roughly shared with you,
the pen held nothing back those days.
Fair confidants of poems then read,
judge me not for where I have been.
And again I spout these fae lines,
weaving magic of memory lost.
Another day I will read these rhymes,
wondering which hand spilled ink again.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
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