Poems grow like trees
From the creative sap of unconsciousness
Burst forth many seeds
Dropping on the sterile, cold surface
Of our lives, most loose their
And lie dormant
Yet sometimes miracles happen:
Words gain magic
And ideas bud from imaginations
Like blossoms in spring.
In such moments
The pen moves with uncanny speed
And thoughts blaze from the unconscious
Like fireworks on paper
Whose faint remnants we read.
||Isn't literature a form of archaeology? The relics we obtain from most archeological ruins are but shadows of an original splendor. So too are printed words but relics of original thoughts.
||There is a beauty in that: some thoughts are best kept in private. Our world is already overloaded with relics, many of which should be swept away.