Poetry

Aggressive posture of silence 
sweeps the mind. 
I preempt the drowning of septum 
in calving ice. 
The ostium ultimately opens 
to spill over the therapy. 
 
You go into the cave- 
to pull out the new born thought. 
The day runs again for bread- 
and butter. There are 
no holds barred. It 
was an intact valve. 
 
But the heart blew away 
the soft feathers. 
I cannot fly now.