I cried when I read a poem today–

October 2, 2015 § Leave a comment

–as I listened to my childhood’s muse,
and memory’s past;
it need not be sensical
though sentiment, it cast.

The soul never made sense
to mankind;
so how do you say, my lovely
that poetry
can ever be defined,
within the limits
of your little mind?

When we have yet
to discover the universe,
and yet to dissect a cell,
So how, my lovely,
do you expect
to describe a passageway
between the heavens, and us,
–when its screech, whimper, and sigh,
floods our history dry?

How can you
define the soul as it tries
to speak and regenerate
in your finite, fruitless, language?

Something as holy and frail,
chooses poetry as its bridge for repentance
and you dare, confine it
for life, in a mere sentence.


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