The BEST thing I can do
Is not to write a poem today.
Not to stretch my soul out,
Not to exhaust myself chasing
Butterfly words that move me,
Or that might resonate with an Other.
I seem to be leaving my soul
Like scattered seeds
On the Internet.
Breaking up pieces of the
Lembas Bread my heart is,
To offer to wild Ravens
In tokens of good faith.
Hannah, my dear, your words do not
Feed some decaying prophet.
You are not baking a cake
With meal and oil
That will never run dry.
You are human.
Your river can become a cracked, baked delta.
You can be tired, grey and full of frustration.
You can choose to lower your eyes to the ground,
Tuck your scabbed knees under your chin,
And say: "Not today.
This poet does not speak"
No comments:
Post a Comment