I can attach my entire existence
to the golden bleed of sun
through the whisp-staccato
edges of a cloud
Such moments steal my breath.
I can spiral into corners
and come out of them
painting with words.
I can feel the energy
flowing from life breathing life
paralleling, combining, releasing.
Epiphany moments, what hides
in plain sight, screaming
“mental illness” at the world —
are simply the inner workings
of a poet.
How many have suffered
how to hone illness to craft?
The poets, the writers, the painters
the builders, the sculptors, the dreamers —
the artists — art underway, swimming thoughts
in color and form, rising up
— rising up into birth, rebirth
— intrinsic beauty.
Let the cells within me
shift and fold into
that burning, golden
Christina Ward 🌼 is a poet, columnist, and nature writer from North Carolina. Stay in touch!
You can follow her poetry at Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry.
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