The last line of poetry
To take the last symmetry,
The soul of the poet pour onto the page,
With the smell of incense and sage.
To cover the lines I put forth my final breath,
To revel as my genius sees death,
The words are stolen, faded to gray,
Until I find the words another day,
In another way,
My final lines the last that I say.
A muted poet is one who paints the world,
Another day has slowly unfurled,
Now my last piece falls into place,
Seeing through another haze,
In another maze,
As I exit the tunnel of the phase.
World of sanctuary