Truth has no greater friend than poetry.
I would go as far as to say they are bowling buddies
on the weekends and share stories over coffee regularly
during the weekdays, reveling in their perfect experiences
together.

When they talk, they don’t simply chat. No,
they communicate, walking the same walk because one is
as it is and the other proves very adaptable. Words uttered
with the constraint of structural dominance lose their oomph,
only flickering with what could have been.

I had a dream today that orange flowers and
purple thoughts could one day rise up and live together in
the confines of our minds.

No thinker is more instinctual than a poet and thus requires
a reactive art form. Trust me, I have sat down and thought deeply
about this after a long walk without destination where I scrutinized
the look and feel of my surroundings until I got bored
and got the usual at the bagel shop.

Explanation in conversation never really explains anything.
Better to leave breadcrumbs behind for someone else to find,
pickup and eat their way to an answer. If you think of a poem as a
wood littered with pieces of starch then consider my message received.
Unfortunately no letter openers exist and it may or may not have been
written in Icelandic depending on what day of the week it arrived.

Try to remember that words provide the only route to realities
of the past and so word choice is paramount. Recollection need not
contain any buildup or letdown; just get to the point stupid.

If you want to waste time then flip through magazines that
don’t really interest you or eat food that you don’t actually desire or
perhaps write a novel that takes way too long to finish. If, on the other
hand, you grasp the enormity of my plea and desire to communicate with
the world as a ambassador of truth and explore the darkness like a
21st century Columbus then by reading these last few words here
you are                     that much closer.