Such is the way
with poetry.
Words fall onto the page,
seeking kindred meanings,
while meaning splits
into fine symmetry.
Two sides of a single plane,
each vying for their time.
Is it truth,
or is it deception?
Live?
Or Memorex?
No one knows,
until they speak the words out loud.
No one knows,
until the pen stops moving,
and the poet stands up
and staggers away.
Drunk again,
but it is only a mask,
only a display of compliance.
Baring his weakness,
his vulnerability,
because that is what the world wants.
Every syllable a scar,
and each metaphor a dagger,
that slips up from behind,
between the ribs,
to pierce the heart.
Such is the way
with love.
Such is the way
with life.
Such is the way
with the struggle to find words
that free the mind
and heal the soul.
Songs for the lonely,
and symphonies for the downtrodden.
Hope for a new generation,
and forgiveness
for the sins
of the past.
These things never come easy.
So, no wonder
the words prove so elusive.
Such is the way
with poetry;
ignored when it is noticed at all.
But undaunted,
untrammeled,
unphased,
it keeps going.
DJR – 2023
