Untitled – on writing

 

 

Autumn stoops,
Picking memories to gather before winter,
All the hues of the world, translated through stem
And petals resignated voice.
When I write, I write something new
As if watching birds will help me fly,
As if each fallen leaf, summered and spoken
Becomes, a petal after winters turn.
I write and rewrite as flowers drop
Their petticoats, picking heartbeats
Coloured with the shades of sunset.
Now, they mark a new memory.

Is uncertainty the same as not knowing?

 

 

 

(c) A Hannan

 

 

Submission for Third Sunday Blog Carnival Volume 1, No. 3 http://thirdsundaybc.com/

 

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The Heart of a Poet

Dried leaves,
Autumns township
Kindled by a night of prayer,
In his own shade
The seared breast
Laced with desires spine,
The Poet’s golden horn swoons,
Spreading its wings
Turning in, a silenced pedestal
Fragranced with bouquets
Of invading beauty
Until, the heart opens it
And we all follow…

 

 

(c) A Hannan