Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Poetry is Sensitve

Unbeknownst to you

I swore off poetry one night when I thought you would never hold me again.


Under the freezing clarity of Canadian January and an ironically lovely sky,

I saw that if this was not the intricate work of well meaning gods that I thought it was,


than surely every fragment of beauty was nothing more than a manifestation of mathematics that only happens to be pleasing


and love is nothing more than synapses and endorphins on a joyride with modern myths and Hallmark running the GPS


and happiness is measured in the space between
sadnesses

so poetry could be nothing more than the sound of an echo lost in a sea of roaring echoes


all longing to not be an echo.


And though later you held me again

and have since


and while I have smiled and daydreamed in the days that have passed


poetry is sensitive


and has proven less forgiving.

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