poetry is badly written prose
when sentences fail
and our dreams compose
the spaces between the dark
and silence
in a language
we have yet to learn
the first steps
in a childhood dance
where words
step on others’ toes
by chance
No orchestra plays
But birds stretch
their wings
candles flicker
and hearts would sing
a feather falls
beneath their feet
and ink drops
mark the place
where they meet.
Source