Rhythmical Poe
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| Digital Illustration by C. Reilley for the Bytesized Studios |
"Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words." - Edgar Allan Poe
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When my daughter brought home a grungy, leathered, tattooed biker for Sunday dinner, it only took moments to reveal the poet within. In the light of her hope all my wounds heal, so throw me a rope and roll me your wheel, I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye to the lies that honeyed words conceal. Only love is real.
Poetry swaggers back and forth, drifting on air, tugging at souls with words that bend, and stretch, tumbling into verse. Straddling the giants of Thought and Emotion, poets have a unique view of the affairs of their fellows, at the cost of their very self.
How the seductive words of the lingual wrestler twists each heart string of the drooping muse. Self reflection is poetic wisdom but my past doesn't define me, it merely gave me the blueprints to refine me, set me on my course straight and true, speaking what must be heard, even when I have nothing to say.
I beg of you - do not try to compete with my poetry, it is the same blood that carries the love that lulls you to sleep every night.
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This stream of consciousness prosery was shared with fans of the father of the detective story and prolific poet, Edgar Alan Poe, containing the phrase "I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye..." fom Poe's Sleeper.
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Please check out this cool E.A. Poe travel mug, one of my favorites!
©2024 Christopher Reilley
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Beautiful, raw, honest writing, Chris.
ReplyDelete“to the lies that honeyed words conceal. Only love is real.” I like the hopeful spin you put into the lines.
ReplyDeleteExcellent definition "Poetry swaggers back and forth, drifting on air, tugging at souls with words that bend, and stretch, tumbling into verse. "
ReplyDeleteHas such a true to Poe feel. I get those same goosebumps reading this.
ReplyDeleteThat’s a great title, Chris, which fits not only the quote but also your stream of consciousness prose. I’ve known quite a few poetic ‘grungy, leathered, tattooed’ bikers. I love the image of poetry swaggering back and forth, ‘tugging at souls with words that bend, and stretch’. But, at 195 words, it is over the Prosery 144-word limit.
ReplyDeleteTo recognize the poet is what really counts I feel ... so the biker is OK then?
ReplyDelete