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
