Poetic Heart

this poetic heart bleeds,
but you will never see blood,
there is pain, pulsating
and pricking, needles and pins
without the cushion, but there is not
a sense of bother, it is here,
and it is there, and it is everywhere,
the body does not complain
to this routine, of self-genuflection,
this is it, and it is familiar, like
old friends meeting again
with white hair and wrinkled
faces, it is full, and it knows
what emptiness is, it releases
air, it deflates, it becomes too light,
it becomes a blank sheet of
white paper. Words
write themselves. Thoughts land
like doves. It is wide like an
open sea.The winds are cool.
And seagulls begin to fly low.
Catching fishes.
Sea caps and lonely sails.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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