An Old Poem With A New Title
- by Emily Bilman
- Apr 17, 2017
- 1 min read
AIR
My water-image whispers back to me:
my curiosity is a well-spring dug
deep by my scanning senses like broad’ning
buckets scooping my tranquil core, my live-
stock’s pulse in the desert drought, my pastor’s
freedom from death in his nomad-journey.
Suddenly, my wind-torn image trembles
like mercury-tears, pulsing like the stars.
My image-strings are now sheared, now revealed.
Free, guilt-free, on the trespassed gate, I feel
the fathom-free air in me. I stand straight
at the threshold of endless gates. My ink
waves carve a laurel crown: my mind-swollen
void curved with light inner breezes, swinging.by
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