By Daniel Ali
I have relinquished this godforsaken title as a poet,
I am merely communicating. Matching and pairing
words in a line, one to follow the other and form a
sequence of words.
I understand them to be known as sentences.
I write with my soddened quill
It trails with the Inks of thought.
Undo my words and split them in –
two sounds if you must, speak them,
hear them but take them as they are.
My mind cannot help but analyse, it cannot stop
from poeticising the world as I see it. I see sound
in colours, I can smell a feeling and I can hear a
smell!
Disgusting. This insatiable need to
metamorphosise undressed existence into something
worth reading, but why is it not worth reading
as it is?
Find me on the corner of a street, sat on a bus or walking through my hometown.
Watch me stop; only for a few seconds.
Observe me looking at a flower,
see how my fingers caress its petals.
I notice a thorn and walk away.
Featured Image: Clark Young