Poetic Sound

You could say I'm sad seeing poetry wrapped in a bag, categorized as if limits could hold it back.

It's water it's wind, the very fabric of sin, encompassing this life through which we swim.

Not a winner, having finessed the lost, with a description of the sun that released them from frost.

Knowing no bounds, thus dancing around, weaving a pattern that is all but lost in sound.

Practical to impound, although not logically sound, the breath of descriptions lifts most of the ground.

Heavy is the heart as I look around, seeing cages designed to capture sound...