Where Is the Poetry?
The poetry is
inside your melanin-infused cells, or
Is it inside
your chromosomes, as they are being reimagined
By the
serotonin chemicals that spark misfires in your brain?
Where is this
poetry of which they speak?
Is it somehow
carried on the wings of your soul, and
What is this
soul? Is the soul a creation of poetry? Or vice versa?
Is poetry a
retelling of your past? A restructure of your present?
Is poetry the
streaks of rain against the window
Of some untold
as-yet-to-be-imagined future?
Maybe it is the
rhythm of your blood pushed through veins
By a heart that
is powered by impulses from the music
That flows into
your ears and your fingertips through the world’s speakers.
Maybe poetry is
a flick of the wrist, a lash of the eye,
Maybe it is
every hello and goodbye
Maybe it is the
waking up or the sitting down, or the smooth recline.
Perhaps poetry
is nothing at all
Perhaps is only
the collection of various word scraps,
Brought together
in a discordant order by your chimpanzee hands on a typewriter.
MR
2021-0223
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