Poetry

That May Be, 17 (138.)

Things sometimes slip into places hard to fathom,
the way the light faces away from stars and into shadows
only to be attached irreversibly to a black hole.
The whole mass has added years to our ages,
but it’s nothing a massage cannot fix.
Wherever did all the thoughts go, oh no, they’re
slipping again, to fall onto such pain,
you would never dream a pebble harbored so much animosity.
Little bumps along the roads in our brains, so, feigning
an understanding of the sane, we open too large holes
and let half-formed words dribble out.
This stream so tiny it may be called a creek,
it creaks out of a pink dawn
that I’d like to have on my cheek.
It shouldn’t be necessary to specify which one,
just let your own brain lead you on.
In this vagueness, I like to fool myself
into believing I’ve won,
my own thoughts hard to fathom,
so there is no light shining or reflecting upon them,
and they are, by default, deemed inscrutable
and, therefore,
immeasurable.
The vastness of wisdom and genius
all submerged beneath pretty platitudes,
with a care(less/free) attitude
that lends unearned mystery to all our shuttered drolleries,
why have they been placed in this margin,
the roots of the trees, ergo
the roots of the paper, ergo
the roots of these words
(a webpage is not organic, you fool)
((and what of the ink?! – Still not tangible))
all rotten, it’s all rotten,
a maze of non-creative, uninteresting rambling
that only serves to sound impressive
while saying
nothing.
Perhaps it is difficult to understand
because
there is no substance to take in.

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