Poetry is a just a mechanism
It is falsely aged paper
used to wrap the mundane and
mimic some borrowed aesthetic;
Some flimsy, pastel-ed fairyland
He is not what my poetry says he is.
He’s not the ocean, or the moon’s sighs
There's no universe in his eyes
How unfair, to paint him as more
than a man
when he is nothing but.
But I was a pocket of restless words
that sought an extravagant form
So when I beheld him, my seams shivered and the whisper came:
“So be it.”
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Poetry is a just a mechanism
It is falsely aged paper
used to wrap the mundane and
mimic some borrowed aesthetic;
Some flimsy, pastel-ed fairyland
He is not what my poetry says he is.
He’s not the ocean, or the moon’s sighs
There's no universe in his eyes
How unfair, to paint him as more
than a man
when he is nothing but.
But I was a pocket of restless words
that sought an extravagant form
So when I beheld him, my seams shivered and the whisper came:
“So be it.”
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