poetry critical

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A Poem In Hiding

A poem is words in hiding, dark and cloaked:
A shade at dusk that moves unseen, unheard.
This art, this flame, at times too wild as smoke;
Not grasped like coin which man does hope to hoard.
This art, a quest, a step, we stride, begin…
The will to flare the path and light the way,
Our eyes to see, and ears they strain to listen,
So shapes may live as words in ordered play.
Patience! A poem may not be plucked too soon:
Unripe its taste will sour Her weaving work;
But silence lets the art unfold to bloom;
For art will flower with time, its Nature’s work.
Our works are seeds to plant that Nature weaves,
Through grind and toil there grows the art to please.

24 Mar 08

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 — fractalcore