Upon your journey to that special place
as poets drift into a land unknown
at the end of an ascending current,
flowing as climbing rivers flow
from the unconscious to the conscious,
upward dreams to their manifestations,
a one way ticket to the paradise,
sanctified by the Grace of God,
driven by the spirit that’s part of you,
you become a stranger unto yourself.
 
As your pen races across the page,
dashing, galloping, swaggering, floating,
from a sea of nothing to a sea of substance,
a million words and a million thoughts,
each one waiting for you,
and time becomes a myth, an empty space,
the past and future
drifting along an infinite sea,
hanging onto each word
with the strings of your heart,
feeling yourself leaving your body.
You see intelligence moving into you
with joyful eyes and charitable hands,
kindling a fire in your heart
with torches and arrows and wine,
lifting you up to a new plateau,
another island in the sky,
another spiritual renewal, another ecstasy,
another wonderment, another you,
as the heavens open up and flow into you,
you with your pen and zealous heart.
 
You are a poet indeed, a poet indeed.

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Robert L. Martin
over 1 year

Thanx Nelson. Thanx for the elaborate feedback

Nelson D Reyes
over 1 year

Time’s empty space is infinite. Time is just there standing like a statue completely mute.and oblivious. We frolic and enjoy and sing poetry in time’s empty space but in a finite mortal way. And then we are gone. Time hardly flinch oblivious as always. Yet all we did was move to another place in time with our spirit instilled in us primordially. And like time we remain eternal.

Like. Thanks Robert.

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Nelson D Reyes
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