The most beautiful poetry I ever came across
bared no words
What do words matter when your spine shows the decay of life’s weight baring?
What do they matter when your feet are dry from walking the arid land of dry souls?
What do words matter when they can’t weigh up to the scars of do, doing and done?
Words are pretty butterfly’s in the hurricane of devastation, no one gives a fuck about the pretty butterfly, when the aftermath is destruction, when there is work to be done at rebuilding life.
The saying goes, ‘The ink of a scholar is weightier than the blood of martyrs’, but I say the sweat of your brow, tips the scale against them both.
I pride myself on being able to combine words like a poetry king when in reality, I’m no where near mastering the art of doing.