It would be enchanting

It would be enchanting

To be caressed

By more than memory

Possessed by more

Than self-absorption

Does a facility

To finesse a sentence

A true romantic make

Is there more to life

Than retrospection

When the future

Is unattainable

The present always past

Unless held

In a petri dish

Beneath a microscope

And studied for its relationship

To reality

We are all confined

Individual cells

Revolving in concert

If only to hear the music

What a dance that would be

Introspection

Is a common thread

Upon which a poet

Might hang their heart

Sufficiently vulnerable

To the tragedy

Of ignominy

As the next person

No different in capacity

To suffer

The indignity of disdain

Not that it really matters,

When the only opinion

Worth its salt

Enough to be heard

Is one's own, there is a tendency

To believe one’s words

Are the only truth

We need

And our pain

Because of its availability

To the pompous

Manipulation of rhyme

Cuts deeper, sheds more

Bright blood

Is more deadly than mere grief

More romantic than the prosaic

Utterances of the anguished

How insufferable

Might that be

To the bereaved

However recent or distant

The loss

Words are less important

Than the feelings

They engender

And expressed emotion

Very often

Defies explanation

Rational, poetic or otherwise