“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.” Jean Cocteau
Like maps
Wrinkled by time,
With faded yellow edges
That denote past rhymes.
In the Unknown
Indefinitely trapped
With simple features,
Smooth or chapped,
These sculpted creatures
Reconstruct
Déjà-vus known
And reveries sewn
Many moons ago.
Solemn
Whispered sighs
And silent eyes
So profound that you may drown
In their deep and surging sea,
These known strangers are to me.