The Poem

The poem

This mirage
this trial by errors
of surratious chants
this hurdle of being
that parts the whole
rhythm of movement
this single flower of flame
in perpetual revolt
whose breath is a prayer
that eludes
making up its madness
as it goes
coupling with the moment
that will never be again
this rabid tongue
of alphabets
lapping at my brain
like a black cat
the symbol of my own
nonfulfillment
this imaginary limb
striving to be whole again
this mote of reflection
of grimacing ritual
grins up at me
as it fades
back into the mist
of my own befuddlement.

Scott Malby

Posted over on A Little Poetry