Blood From This Altar

Words, like paint, flow forth from the Poet's brush, and paint a canvas of ideas, memories, losses and loves. The years, cryptically etched on woven fibers, bleed our blood, breathe our breath, weep our tears and imbibe our ecstasies. The heights of human sublimity and the depths of our follies are exposed, the pride and the shame have leaked from the veins of humanity; black stains on white linen. Our struggle through the labrinth of reason, uncovered. Our search for Diety strengthened and questioned. Poetry is a longsword, forged in the mind, of ink and thought, beat out on the anvil of suffering and quenched in the waters of pleasure, to be wielded by the master to create absolute beauty, but clumsily by the fool to bring forth dross.

Like wild rain beating out a cadence on our hearts, poetry dances across our soul, thrilling our passions to unseen summits, then dashing us onto the dark shores of despair. Crisp dark letters on the page, like soldiers lined up on a battlefield covered with snow, fight and struggle for the supremacy of ideas, but in the end they are just words, and do not think for us and cannot act for us, we must own that, and interpret these echoes from the past, these weeds and flowers from the present and choose our future.