a poet is like a sphere
with his centre everywhere
and her circumference nowhere
her pen bursts
with tachyon trails
revealing timelessness
a formless undiscovery
of territories without maps
realizing unknowns
he writes with stillness
and soundless rhythms
only the Heart can hear
the play of invertendo
innuendo and rhyme
as ripples on a dream
unraveling eyes
dismember the dead
forms and rituals
read --
then the poet is
reborn, numinous
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