A 7 line sonnet
I am neither a poet who writes nor a painter who paints,
But I accept an increasing and manifesting zeal and ardour
That both poet and painter are able to achieve and share
The task of making the world listen to what is needed
To be able to hear of it is to be cured of despair and isolation
And of meaninglessness, by grasping the real relationship
Between world and word, concept and experience.
Standing in a numinous garden, bodies transformed,
stirrings of intensity, undeniable hunger.
Oblivious of the surroundings.
Laughing in tandem,
arousal penetrating the undercurrent.
Desire dictating the schema.
The garden fountain, hyperactive,
water bubbling upon a concrete shore.
You said once that rain
increased the gorgeous velocity
of street, clouds & chimney smoke.
Soon enough veracity hit home.
Guilt all too consuming
Memories of our journey
came flooding back.
We watched the fountain
'til dawn performed
it's morning splendor
filtering through our eyes,
knowing that time was nigh.
Was the journey to end
or take us on another path?
When we trespassed our hearts were in it.