A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

We break here.

Poetry is meaningless, irreproachable,
Irrational, Unmotionable, unemotionable,
Or is it?

Could it be the record of man's struggle, internal and external,
To this world of unjust pain, unnecessary violence and tiring unrest.

Or the poor man's perspective.
His gloomy outlook upon a gloomy world
A world in which the power of love loves everything except
Peace, the fellow man and morality.
That hates happiness, humour and humility.

Of glowing sunshines and dark shining moons
A sky set violet balloon,
Let loose from a sand dune
On a glorious beach somewhere.
Somewhere peaceful, loving, humble.