delicate

poetry is some delicate form — a fledgling, hungry, defenseless and dependent on mother's return i am the same, a tenderfoot scribe doing the simple bidding of some primordial mechanism etched into the fiber of my being i dare not capitalize anything lest i attempt dominion over everything i am but a soul at rest one amongst the menagerie within the bosom of the universe i lay my head through spiritual behest to feel the fragile pulse of life's nest a wind slightly too harsh would break the branches of my heart and dispell the magic of a world so big and a me so small it feels as if... the universe itself grew hands to hold me i am now all i ever needed to be