Phases

 

It always happens when writing

poetry, the words in my mind

go in cycles of how they form,

my pen trying to echo words

that change form. Lines are short, long,

short, long; stanzas are small bursts,

fireworks with a bang or swell

words sweeping like the flowing waves;

words are succinct, little soldiers

giving commands, and blooming

flowers reaching towards the light.

Things may change, but words never

do, holding my heart tight and still.