pre-meditation

[paperleaves]

yoga mat headrest, the earth feels cool and damp
not thinking, rather, perceiving
inhale, exhale
at peace with the demons, we sip on coconut tea
in the recesses of each passing breath.
in this place, not a thing has to make sense
the dew can dance in stiletto slumber beneath God's fingertips
in lakes of lilies, and waves of grass, and seas of freesia blossoms
awoken by
the clarity of crisp winter air perfumed by summer shrapnel
my dreams dance on razor legs
so that no one
will ever stop them.

[PrinceMyshkin]

yoga mat headrest, the earth feels cool and damp
not thinking, rather, perceiving
inhale, exhale
at peace with the demons, we sip on coconut tea
in the recesses of each passing breath.
in this place, not a thing has to make sense
the dew can dance in stiletto slumber beneath God's fingertips
in lakes of lilies, and waves of grass, and seas of freesia blossoms
awoken by
the clarity of crisp winter air perfumed by summer shrapnel
my dreams dance on razor legs
so that no one
will ever stop them.

Maybe the greatest gift that writing poetry affords us is the chance to find and exercise a voice of our own, not those many accomodating voices we feel obliged or choose to use in dealing with our 'superiors' or the hordes of people who don't use precisely the same language we do, and you must have had your own unique voice from when you first said "Mama," or certainly you've been developing and letting it out to sing or play or howl ever since.


the dew can dance in stiletto slumber beneath God's fingertips

Indeed! And who, after this, would presume to doubt that?

[symphony]

Oh i love this little piece of peace here!

[breathtest]

Your best, paperleaves. This is your most beautiful

[~Sophia~]

.
in this place, not a thing has to make sense
the dew can dance in stiletto

Some people wait a lifetime to come up with a line like that... you deliver one or more in every work which makes it impossible not to love your poetry!

[JacobF]

Again, very striking and evocative.

"the clarity of crisp winter air perfumed by summer shrapnel"

I can smell what you write with this line. Imagery at its finest.