A cornucopia of dreams. Inside,
a cavernous dark. Except our nature,
being there, makes certain of always
getting into the grip of something.
Aren’t we all psychosomatic, bent
on collaborating in truth?
She’s searched everywhere when
all the while it’s within–an erected
monument. All the threads in books,
art, music, events want to explain
the glorious enigma slant-eyed.
A true ecstatic embraces myth.
Prompt: I don’t know about you, but I’m getting all bleary-eyed about poetry. Too much poeming. There’s a kind of rigidity to it. That’s the trouble. When you’re giving in to the structure of this kind of thing, it’s almost too late to give up now that you’re nearly at the end. Not that the world would effing care. But you kind of do. There, it’s your nature to care if you’re a toiling poet. We see stars all the time don’t we? We’re all starry-eyed. I almost forgot the Writers Digest Day 22 prompt. It is to use the word “star” and follow it with a suffix or word.