The older you grow
The more words begin to sound the same as the feeling they invoke
Shallow
Broken
Peeling
And I wonder if that is because we know their meaning with such intensity
Because it has been felt
At depth
Within
Tip toed across tender skin
That they conjure instantly
Holograms to dance
upon the tongue
Or because haiku
Is the only true
One
love
The art of summary is clearly superior
Longer stanzas feel vacuous
Instead burn clarity, focus
Condensing hot thoughts to steam
Breathe it in
And keep flowing
Is this not the only use for poetry
Except
Perhaps
To seduce memory into thinking
It was other than it was
A momentary imagined dross
Which in just the right beam of sunlight
Delivered at just the right time
Rendered the innocuous glance
Golden
*A photo of a pub in Winton – through the doors at 6am.
Pubs are funny like that – full of life in the night, but at 6am a sort of hollowness is all that remains
