Why do I write saucy poems
about what might have been
if butterfly's wings would have
overturned time and space?
Instead of writing what has
been - and will never be again?
What has been lived, branded
into memory with a burning iron?
Oh, I have written of the latter,
often, but the latter carries
with them all the context
around those brief moments,
heartbreak, pain and guilt.
What has never been and never
What has never been and never
will be, but might have been
on some alternate Earth,
carries a different, better burden:
Not of heartbreak, pain and guilt
and long years, albums of memories,
but of respecting the muse
who grants it. Keeping the vision
and the source separate, leaving
the vision in its pocket universe
of Earth that never was and won't be.
So I, for now, choose the snappy one-liners
of my muse - better, more effective
than she herself thinks, little haikus -
to kindle poems of burning desire.
13.07.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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