Is poetry producible as a minimalist?
Can I convey what my bones ache to share
with words left unoccupied?
Can the throbbing in my chest, the heat from within,
be described in fewer words?
Can the desperate longing that courses through my veins
like tumbleweed set a blaze in a scorched desert,
be recounted in aforementioned ways
that one may comprehend
the potential that such a spark achieves?
is it possible to pare down
whilst retaining meaning?
perhaps by only stating the necessary
it forces the reader to reach the inmost,
profound, rooted,
abyss
that lies within once shallow caverns
only becoming awakened
stirred, if you will,
by phrases like…
primal need.
and that then, and only then,
it is conceivable
that they may justly recount
their own scorched deserts.
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