Like a cool breeze which weaves itself through the willow oaks,
So does this subtle sound cut deep through me.
Wavering on a different kind of bow,
Reverberating the ink below into a different kind of note.
So much so that when I hear the sound of the rustling leaves,
I dare not sleep, without a smile inquisitorial.
Not that sleep was an option amongst the trees,
But I digress
And with conclusions leave.
To forget the song of you for awhile, until you return once more,
Rustling as you please.
Really quick while I have a firm grasp on its tail. Poetry to me, is so very much about me, and yet nothing about myself at all. It's like a window I see that keeps opening and closing, entering and exiting the opportunity to speak, be it to noone at all (outside of yourself). And the sharing and collection of these reflection is the safest form of anonymity I've yet to find. Like a codex with only a key once defined, and named to the person or place that originally inspired. But most importantly, poetry is the option to slow down and smell the flowers. Only in my case, a flower is a memory, a possibility, or a hope that could not yet come to be. It's everything and nothing at all. A heavy substance without recognized weight until otherwise told. And the best thing is...if I don't want to. If I don't feel called or if I don't take the time. It won't, exist, at all. At least in the form which it would've found in that moment. That's what poetry is to me.
And this was about a certain Snicket song. Wordless it says, so much to me...or nothing at all. LOL LIFE.
