Poetry Tempered by the Formula of His Prose

I walk back and forth,
along a path that seems quite alone,
solitary, but never quite the same.

At one end, there is poetry,
nearly incomprehensible,
hanging by a spider’s thread
to familiar shapes and forms,
where the path widens
as if an infinite yawn,
wanting
the entire world inside me.

at the other end, is prose,
tiny yellow flower in the garden,
describing in intricate detail,
conforming to space and time,
by geometry upon earth’s ground,
a pyramid to live lifetimes:
I see familiar shapes well.

I walk back and forth,
between these two,
but something interesting I noticed,
like a great dragon in the sky:
the faster I walk,
the more my bones begin to ache,
the path grows ever shorter
and lighter in its terrain.

The destination, as it seems,
is not the end,
But the center,
where both opposites merge.
Male and female.
Dark and Light.
Left and right.
where unknown mingles with known,
to give birth to something natural,
where Poetry’s infinitude is tempered
by the formula of his Prose