Merlin's Tedium

Poetry is not for self, for blather's pleasure, but a fulcrum moving worlds by increments of feeling. If it were not, roses all be red...violets be blue. That would be the last word...and poetry be dead!

It comes out, that all words cast a spell, both doing and undoing. It becomes a thing or doesn't and can stitch a thing, that wasn't to a thing that somehow, shouldn't, but is, at the end...rocking and rolling.

It all feels, rather strange and quite unordinarily right, if it's done well...as if magic had a part, where something playing in the heart...changed everything a space or ten!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: halfwayanywhere.com, google pic