In the Meaning of Words


In the sight sound touch taste smell of a poem
I can feel the power of history
The gap of lyrics in the years

A synaesthesia of what we should have known
All along, the cinnamon hope
Of the lost sonnet sequences

Of a Petrarchan burden of
The Shakespearean touch
But I’m not here for stanzas or sestinas
I’m a floating unread Haiku in time

I’m a limerick without humour
Catching fire, I’m a ballade
Of too much emotional to encompass

And the truth is, I’m an epitaph
Read out loud to myself for myself
And maybe, that’s all I ever was
An epigram of blank verse

A muse on an imaginary stage
A symbol, a pun, a simile ready
To be personified like an oxymoron

A denotation of myself, contrasting
The sufficient irony of allegory
That’s it, that’s all, goodbye.

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