Tuesday, December 01, 2015

Different Poetry


How wrong it had been
To choose a girl
Who wrote on funerals and wreaths
At the age of twenty.

When you talk about my poetry,
And me,
I listen…
In silence
In disbelief
In nauseation
In fear
In heartache
In acceptance
In peace.

Then I think -
I too might have written different poetry.
At thirty, maybe forever afterwards.
On hyacinths and quiet conversation of hearts.
Had I walked a different life.

Different poetry
Could not be born of me;
I lost them purposely.
 


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