This Poem is a Rite of Passage

.

,
a small spill of thought
caught in an invisible chalice,

a palace built of ink and stones
unthrown. It’s a lonely heart

crossing itself and hoping to
die, a whiled and wily why,

a wisp of whim. It’s forgotten
how to bow, but knows how

to sneeze. If it please the court
(the room, the queen), it may

object to its own desire, but
it’s got enough embered fire to

keep us burning through the
night. It fights with fists and

fingertips and frames a crooked
world with cat’s cradle strings.

 

.

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One Response to This Poem is a Rite of Passage

  1. Estella says:

    I love this:
    “caught in an invisible chalice,
    a palace built of ink and stones”

    Also the last five lines.

Use your words.

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