It took a long time for Felix to shed his irrational contempt for poetry. To begin to appreciate the art of saying much with only a handful of words. And the beauty of crafting something that different people could connect with, even as they read something very different out of the same words.

Felix isn’t an accomplished poetry by any means, but he does find great joy in trying to get better at this elusive and delicate craft.


Black stands the forest.
Wind has weakest branches broken,
stripped stand trunk and bole:
A fence, a wall, a token.

I hear your forlorn call.
Misty fingers, damp and cold,
grips hand by hand, but
desire has the strongest hold.

Eyes are mirrors of the soul.
Stare back do darkest pond,
you wait for me below.
A maid so fair and blonde.