Poetry was something left in the stars like a trace of old smoke. It is the language of symphonies and the language of night in violent conversation. It is old words turned into a black art which saints may set forth like whirling fire in their religious fury. Poetry herself dreams of a complete midnight where the world’s wild colors flourish. In the waters of dawn, you may come to the garden of poetry where the flowers are reddening out whatever remains of night’s traces. Poetry is the neutron and the diamond, the french kiss under Spanish moss; brain vitamins.

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