Is there any such a thing as
A professional poet.
How does one graft oneself for such.
There is a definite appetite
To create.
And this is where the mystic in me
Arises.
You stir.
You sip.
I dip -
My soul.
Into cold coffee.
I retreat to the image of an undisturbing
Ritual.
Rituals in language.
Strange cohesion of words.
A woven chest of an inward map,
My psychology made up as false.
Sometimes pety virtues.
I contain a secret,
Prayer.
It consists of all these things,
Decodified, unscrambled,
Information only the brain
Has superfluously concocted.
As I take a closer look into an abyss
With my closed eyelids.
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