Till

Till these eyes pop out from its sockets
Drop like marbles on the floor
Roll to dust and sand and be gone,
Till my back aches no more with
A thousand needles pricking me up higher
To my neck, my nape higher all over my head,
Till my arms break into quarters of bones
Till my hands disjoin from their fingers
Till this heart burst to segregated chambers,
Till my solid self disintegrates into meaningless pieces
Till everything in me returns to dust flies to air,
I will never cease composing all of you
Words without sounds, sounds without images
I will not
Stop giving you the image that you desire, the sound that would be musical,
To the ears of this world, to the farthest celestial ears of this universe,
My dear words, You all have the right to become my poetry, the poetry.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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