Agrimmeer DeMolay‘s poem: the word

I sift for a lost word,

lying in a half-sleep

brewing a slew of syllables

inside my blanketed body.

you need it

to finish a song, a discourse, a spell,

and I’d leave it, bookmarked

where you could find it,

if I knew it yet.

a word unlearned

should be this far

and right between us,

and I’d speak it,

if it wasn’t lost. I dream it,

pull it down

to my chest and almost

keep it,

but it slips back into the ether

between starlight and cereal,

leaving an imprint in my ear,

like humming along to a tune

you don’t know

the words to, something

not purchased or stolen when born

but perhaps later.

I know it exists and can be

uttered or whispered,

and it’s that close,

nearer to one of us,

between your dream and mine.

Agrimmeer is still trying to learn how not to be an alien in this place, and he thinks that a good way to walk that learning curve is to create these things called poems and to pave the direction travelled with them (and some directions not travelled too). He also believes all poems are really parts of one large universal poem that goes everywhere.

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