Poetry, To Me (3)

Poetry, To Me (1)  *  Poetry, To Me (2) *

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Chaos surges over … under… through… my formless soul,

You’d think I’m born of cast iron;

The way it swirls and bubbles within me — picture a witch’s cauldron,

Dark and divine energies, merging and undulating.

A process forever moving, persistently Illuminating all immediate surroundings

Squint your eyes lest hit by the glare factor of an eclipse

What is poetry, but my best attempts to convey that same chaos to you

Through this medium, in a manner closest to order — or rather,

In a way that bridges our understanding.

– O.D. ©2021

Art by:  KihOskh714