For the next fifteen minutes…

I’m back with a bang. A poem for World Poetry Day. Which it still is…

For the next fifteen minutes…

It’s world poetry day, or Christmas, or somebody’s birthday.

A funeral, maybe.

And you’ve promised the world to yourself and yourself to the world.

But your speech is all cloying and clogged and saccharine-sticky and gummed to the roofing tar of your mouth.

Your fingers scrape away at the keyboard, windscreen wiping the dust from your monitor, and the cobwebs from your mind.

And your brain starts to churn and to contemplate,

Cogitate,

Summon up stories and sorceries,

Speculate,

Rhyme and Rhythm and Reason and Rhapsody, lyrical, spill from their chamber-chains as rusted keys find long-forgotten locks,

and words first trickle then gush.

In a pro’s repose, you repurpose purple prose, and remember, finally,

the truth.

That you are a magician.

And your powers dwell within you, and without you.

And the magic that you weave burns in the world-page.

Forever.

Well, at least for the next fifteen minutes.

 

Bang. In before midnight. You’re welcome world. Hit me up @Sellpen on twitter, or leave me a comment. xxx

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