What is poetry if not an X-ray of the soul.
It’s a scan of what we hide inside in darkness black as coal.
A poet scans the soul of things…themselves & those without.
They see into the hidden places & turn them inside out.
They roll it over in their hands & rinse off all the rot.
Then it’s polished & bright & ready then to be poetry’s plot.
Black blood ink soaks into the bright white page from the nib of fountain pens.
The pens designed from broken bones found behind the X-ray lens.
And whadduyaknow! The things we hide turned out to be rare diamonds.
Poets have done this from the dawn of language & will until la fin du monde.
L.B.Stowe 