I can read poems, but can they read me? Do I conjure the authors’ soul when I run my fingers along those delicate frames of greatness? Can I speak with those who penned immortality? Time can be an ocean, separating two kindred minds. Or time can be a simple wall in an apartment. I’m the noisy tenant; my poetic inventions are still full of bugs. I’m annoying the hell out of Mr. Blake, Mr. Frost and Mr. Whitman next door. The three old ghosts are glad to hear an inventor, but would like some peace and quiet. Indeed, I can speak with poems. I can knock on their withered doors whenever I need advice. The three old ghosts will be there long after I return to my room and close the door.
this left me hanging on a sigh. very nice imagery in this, and an almost... calming effect... tank you for sharing this. it was very much enjoyed!
Ah yes, we probably irritate the hell out of those guys, but they can't get mad because it's their fault for being so good that they inspire the rest of us to aspire to write like them. anyways, I really like this one, great idea (poetry reading US), and excellent imagery... Time as an ocean, or an apartment wall. Beautiful.
