The poet is a hunter
To capture the unseen
Like a heirophant riding
A feather as a chariot
One that floats without
Reins or consequence
The poet sets the trap
For tangerine skies
That drip gold into oceans
Leaving an empty canvas
Where potential remains
The poet is the creator of nets
To collect the flying fish
That swim in the privets
The poet is a hunter
A taxidermist of words and wonder
A taxidermist of first love and last
Memories that drip away
Are collected with words
by the poet
who sets them in amber
WhatsHerName Writes 