Shape

The shape is in the night hidden from our view.
You take to night to drown in delightful confusion
Brewing in a freedom to take shape from a word
When word is poem, a woman that comes to you
With the freedom of shape, from your innerness.

 

Then a crow caws in the dawn of a poem walk
A walk postponed for a poem, a thought woman
Who comes to you with your own shape of body,
The mind shaping a body you love in all shapes
A shapelessness of freedom, a release of mind

 

An amoeba of no shapes, with false feet all sides
Always flexible, moving only to stay immobile
With the possibility of disappearing as a shape
To be a cloud of all shapes in the space of time.

 

A patch of discoloration on a wall, a rain-moss
Black of the summer sun, a soft morning sound
Of wood against metal, a smell burning in milk,
A death into the sky, a dark fear, a loss of shape.

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