everything fades in time, you know
how all was black before your birth
and after—you have nothing else to go on
clinging to every look and gesture
winding yourself into being
not every spark ends in a sun
your hand is on the work
National Poetry Month is ended, but I still have pages in my Yes-Words journal…
Once it is written, the magic is gone.
Galaxied dreams become rocks after all;
sky-blazing-brilliant star turns into stone
once it is written. (The magic is gone,
memory sunk. These words, cold and alone,
conjuring mere disillusionment, pall.)
Once it is written, the magic is gone—
galaxied dreams become rocks after all.
Playing around with the triolet for Yeah Write’s September poetry slam.