Poetry
Reality and fantasy detached,
Living in the spaces between letters.
I’m on the outside all the time,
Taking in only the memories of places where the words began.
Just a brain waiting for a sensory lapse,
An overload to spring from the fetters.
I can understand the language and the rhyme;
But the words have no meaning to someone so blind.
Bumps and stretches of the linguistic skin;
This is the end where it all makes sense.
Roving, ranting, raining right onto Rilke.
Any anomaly assimilate, and it is what poetry is and where it got us.
love the line “Living in the spaces between letters”
I like: bulbs and stretches on the linguist skin
I love this poem. It is so fluid
Wow! Love this:
We’d eat greasy food at 12am
And talk until 3am
Every night we’d find each other
Like it was instinct