This medium does little

To hide what I think or feel

Poetry, the moon

The sun, my burning heart

The high-tide giver, once in a while

Tries to eclipse my ball of fire

But only serves

To make it shine

That much brighter.


The sonic from my words

Builds bricks that surround me

Shielded does not begin to describe

How protected my core is;

So when they say they know who I am

I allow them to believe that;

Serves to be easier than giving them a dose

Of extra-terrestrial enlightenment

Blindsiding them

With other-worldly actualities.


A supporter of love

But try push me to the edge

With your ill-intentions?

 Instinct, in turn, dictates 

I re-write this

Into an entirely new play;

You: deer

Me: headlights



 – Original-Dante ©2017


Photograph by: samuilvel


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