THE UNDYING
- Jun 21
- 1 min read
By J.D. Scève
Is it dangerous to love another poet?
They say to fall for one is to live eternally,
Between their lines of adoration,
And honeyed words to their muses of fire.
But would two be suffocating,
As all misery and esteem is laid out raw on fresh pages?
Ink soiled with the sickly sweetness of colliding passions,
The cold shudder of bitter prose frothing in the mind.
Poetry is like the spring flower peeking through melting snow,
Poising the slush while enfolding petals till the sun hits.
Yet the roots web the depths of the soil,
Grasping for sustenance to hold up its beckoning head.