a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get
if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess
lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Written in ten minutes when Frivolous Treasure, Ingrid, and SE Reimer
excised it from with me, a triage performed and a poem delivered, fluid and tear wet, while Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings harmonized what ever music the man has left.
flawless? Perhaps one slightly less flawed.
give us your names and I will write someday
what my heart knows exists
Words are hopeless, poor substitutes for what they in vain,and we too, we call the heart's decay but this poem give unto me a deeper satisfaction than most...