I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
You don’t understand: anyone can fly My story is clear, but few read it well It’s true: I did burn, plummet and die
By D. J. Reddall8 months ago in Poets
Hades, god of the dead, himself alive Yearned for Persephone's tender embrace Her mother, Demeter, made green crops thrive
No seafoam clings to your hardwired form You seem forged from cold code, not briny waves To no ancient, sung rites do you conform
By D. J. Reddall9 months ago in Poets
We treat doctors like Idiots and idiots As if they're doctors
Son of Peleus, valiant Argonaut And lovely Thetis, immortal nereid Achilles, for the Achaeans you fought Until Agamemnon would not concede
Tiresias, blind prophet, you could see: Narcissus, blessed with beauty, would flourish For so long as unknowing he could be;
Many think they are familiar with him: Zeus, lord and master of the many gods But before his wrath dispatched lightning grim
Without a muse, a poet cannot sing An empty jug contains no trace of oil Frustrated are those, nourishment seeking From vessels empty, despite farmers' toil
Shining Apollo gazed at you with lust Darling daughter of Priam's teeming Troy Bright Phoebus, with a gift, sought your warm trust
Instead of trying To eradicate all threats Learn to be immune
There are texts that cannot sustain frequent rereading No matter who you become, you will find nothing new in them This is the addict's secret folly
A particle one moment, next a wave Who can lucidly define energy? More than, “the power to do work,” we crave Who can make water legible, like thee?
