A poem is a
little water
An invisible
angel pours
In my shallow
saucer.
To the brim
he can’t fill
For if I
walk some steps
The poem I
might spill.
If in
distraction around
Doing this
or that of day
The water
falls aground.
The formless
liquid sublime
I must
quickly give shape
In a
sentence or a rhyme!
Xavier Bage
Wed, September
07, 2016
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