I’ve never thought to wonder
how to make clear a window.
Those who own them appear
to simply “be that way”,
with hearts and lungs adorned
splendidly upon their bloodied sleeves,
a morbid spectacle as any.
Still, the poet turns to rhyme
and rhythm to make use of time
to make known all the spectral hopes
and unsung dreams and heroes ‘thin his mind.
And if he should be a she
then surely she will do no different,
for the poet is an breed of thing.
When one may say “the rains came down”
they could mean gloom and clouds of grey,
where in another frame of mind they may
speak of the watering of thirsty souls,
empathed with dirt and dust of soil.
So encrypted is the heart
of we weighed down by aimless thoughts
we want to fancy more than fact
when faced with truth or love.
Ask not I to make things plain,
if fact or touch is your desire.
Neither still if you crave goodbyes,
i’m fresh out of those.
I promise it’s not out of disgust, or distaste,
I’m simply one to guess against my would-be words.
About the Creator
Alan John
I'm a Virginia based writer/musician looking to find my place in this wild wild world.
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