Why I Write Poetry
Because sometimes, giving daisies,
or roses – red, red, red always
red, is not so much the right present, as to offer
larkspurs, or say – foxglove,
carefully bundled – to mend a heart
broken far too often. You need to know
the nature of its edges, find the right place
to plant your flower so it bears fruit. Because
this is why, I had dreams of flying,
of seeing the grey dissonance of nimbus
around me, cirrus, kissing my face.
Imagine: seamless patch of sky
draped in a neverending sea
of cyan stretching endlessly, yes
it is pleasing to the eyes
but after a world of nothing
other than the same sea, the same
old sky, why else look? Why tire my eyes
with a thing that has taken root
in what is far too familiar?
* a friend asked me why, a few days ago. I figured it out, I think. The answer is bound to change. Check back often.
