This is a Modern Poem

It's something I came up with while looking for work, moving game pieces or drowning in thoughts that begged me questions of love and humans and minds that made me ponder the reality of science. It began with words about the past and futures and whether archived similes could stand to be repeated, if the rhythm required that 'trepidation' replaced 'fear' or if the sun-kissed-daisy rhyme stood to be deleted. It was written with the present in mind, those front page exclamations that burden the working days and it's layered like a cake with anecdotes and inspirations from the hallucination I call life.

People will read it and weep their remorse for wasted trees while others will scoff and denounce the so-called imagery for fear of the resignation of their testosterone degrees and some arm their scalpels to peel back each layer and dissect each metaphor to every molecule, out to uncover why the roses bleed red and skies turn deep purple at thunder's first crackle; what's the point to that thunder? why describe it so only when the narrator's worries fly overhead with it with so-called great-horned grace? And what is an owl doing in a poem about love and peace and science anyhow?

Yet somebody out there will read it and love it, cherish each page even if it suffers from trite or unleashes the narrator's multicolored thunder or mentions a flower more than thrice; if it means anything or everything, nothing but a mess of words, a thing that people looked at then the modern poem has done its job.