Imagination is divine thinking

by Christos Polydorou

Here I
am, You called, This
is my
answer: My tears
are dancers
posing at your back
Three: the most pleasurable
number:

I
am
the
Wtf
Bizzare
            Coincidence:
The anti climactic
Cliff-
hanger
A real Ball-
breaker
until you
shake me

With Love
which trumps Even me:

Even my heart
is a basic
instrument of tormeting life:

Tragic
in its woe-be-gone
forever intoxicated

Always in love
with one lady
or gentleman

or cat or red
breasted robin
or another:

quick now
catch your heart
such an elusive instrument
like pencils
divine instruments
for the writing hand
the righting hand

the inviting, blighting, heightening
hand of

That begins at

Centuries

Past

Present

Future

I want to write without hesitations and personal fears, beyond a place of consciousness, I want to reach a place of holy peace, and then begin writing, I want to respect the medium and the love that carried it here to this day in these hands.

Their kingdom of heaven for an audience. An audience that would be part of the heavenly Play and all its hellish intervals, who would have to experience the extended metaphors of pearly gates and purgatory.

All my seven circles have become a coin on which is forged two truths to choose from:

god
or ego

god in lower case letters
because I am refering to god
within us

an “alter ego”
who works for good
who stops

and lets actions
speak
and lets kindness
or silence
be the dancer
who carries
us all
away from every page
Even me
Writing
on this one.

The Satur day becomes Satur night. My urban solitude becomes a spiritual beacon as I melt my sorrows into the verve of words.

I spotted a red breasted robin,
this morning, true
story. It was in the brambles,
with all the morning sparrows.

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