they called me the river of silence , but I was ruby red as a wild rose
is madness the profound happiness
expanding the cognizant intelligence ?
are the words of the great secret only the nubian light of a fable?
in exploriatum
is my tale only given the credit of my second great being?
and is the only sound daughter of my mother , born without the sunlight making the pattern of the fools age and the multicolored grass?
they call me the river of silence , not arousing the smallest murmur from its bed
motionless I lay in my contempt
channeling into the bed of pebbles on the bottom
beneath the sprinkled yellow buttercup
smoother than any vivid brilliance was my muteness
sovereign was my ruling
of every word
they juiced out of my starshaped lips
tamed only by the ruby red glowingbirds haunting the villains poking my crimson voice with their thorny sticks
never did they find a heart
only terror by the banks of my entombed scream
.
.
Poetry by Lourdes
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Written on 2006-10-29 at 02:10
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