February 26th, 2013

I always cry when I read poetry.
Oh, you must read very sad poems then.
No, I just forget to blink or maybe I am afraid-
In case a word slips away like a ship into the sunset
That can never be returned if lost at sea,
Or a love note burned so that it will never be seen.

You see poetry is elusive,
And we must keep a wary eye upon it at all times.
This watchful gaze cannot be pried from the page-
Just incase a word tries to escape,
Like a fox willing to bite off its foot for freedom
You see, I am diligent in my reading, like a hunter in wait.

My eyes water as they scan each new line,
Consuming each string of words
Like a wolf with a hunger that doesn’t die
Maw agape and body ready to be filled;
You see I have a mind that hungers
Like a wolf’s stomach that howls for more.

So those tears are not courted from sadness,
But ravenous hunger that twists my smile
Into a lip licking sneer of a grin
As the words on the page
Fill the spaces behind my retinas,
Like bones stuck in barred teeth.

Later they will come forth like a parade
Of parables to march before my mind;
This funeral procession of devoured words
Streams down my eyes like cold winter rain
After my eyes and mind have been full to the brim
And can hold them inside any more.

These tears roll down my cheeks like inevitably overflowing
Rain gutters, filled with words to heavy to remain confined
By the constrains of the brain I tried to devise;
So they drip from my eyes to the page again
These black inky puddles, the mistaken inkblots
Of a clumsy uncultured hand holding a calligraphy pen.

Taking from the stains of liquid reinvention,
This taint becomes the blood from which we begin again.
Dip the pen and scratch the etchings of new lines,
Stringing words along only to be re-devoured
By the next pair of ravenous eyes
Only to be written again by craving hands.

You see my eyes are burning again,
Starving for the page, striving for the game
The rumble of empty minds has shaken the foundation of me
These tears are not for the poetry, but the loss
Of who I used to be
Before the words on the page became all I could see.

Now the tears have blurred my vision,
And the poetry has become blindness to me
Now all the words escape and the cascade of poetry
From me has stained the page making an illegible craze;
My attempt at diligence has lost me the essence
Of the words I clung so desperately to.

Maybe I should read some sad poetry,
Have a good cry,
And cleanse the old from my body,
Not fear the final loss of words,
As the funeral procession proceeds without me
Maybe when I am left behind, I can finally begin.

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