On Poetry…

A poem offers nothing

But an escape

To ponder inquiries the of eternities

Like time spent by the lake

Though never to be answered

It rears its ugly head: Why?

Why a lake, why a poem, why a moon, why a sky

Or why-OH WHY -must everything die

The busy earth by the lake

Appears as a dream

Fragmented beauty nightmarishly real

As needs, quests, and deadlines

Drift off in its wake

At its worst it’s drivel

At its best an escape



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