A Poem Is

January 22, 2018

To me a poem, half the time, is a lie spun quite well
Things are said like, “A song of blood that serenades of love”
You know, things that make no sense at all
Interpreting a poem, to me, half the time, is like
To run a thousand miles and sail a hundred seas,
All in search of a treasure that none have ever seen
And why, why you ask?
Well, because there is no treasure, and lives like that are just like half of poems:
They are intriguingly impossible to comprehend how they exist
In fact, perhaps they do not exist at all
“A death of light that brings out the starlight in your eyes so bright as silence”
Just words of seeming innocence, words spoken to voice deathly feelings,
Is all that these things are
That is, to me, in half of all poems
But, to call myself a poet?
Who am I, a person to have such privilege as to cut your throat with words?
A servant of Someone greater, sure, but a poet?
Me, a wordsmith, a twister of powerful, abstract objects that cannot breath in this
Physical world of light and dark, but in a different world coinciding with this one
I beg of God at times, of many things,
But to interpret things such as these?
To me a poem, half the time, is merely that: a poem
And, of course, this may just be that






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