All the good people I know are defeated.
Soar
-ing
into themselves,
deep and lonely –
especially the voices stuck inside an echo chamber,
a poet’s words bouncing back and forth,
back
and –
one can’t constantly
turn
oneself on
and yet
if it weren’t for the
dispossessed dreamers,
the unreconciled romantics
hovering
cold
within
that bear mountain
tavern
of a lonely head,
a near-ghosted spirit –
well then,
no beauty would ever
stand a chance,
no flower
would ever be bold
and crazy enough
to bloom
amidst
the ghettos
of the soul.
(c) 2013 by Nina Fleck
*
Dennis Leroy Kangalee 