The fresh morning air,

The fresh morning air,

Newly minted.

Innocence

Stripped bare.

A sneak thief,

The wind has silken fingers

Always on the move.

Nothing is as it was

Nor as it should be.

Even though it is familiar,

There is always the gift

Of forgetfulness

Sleeping in the corner.

“Is that poetry?” he asked

“I’m not sure.

If you mean

Is it a bunch of words

Strung together

In a stylised way

With a pleasing melody

An incomprehensible message

That might be

Full of familiar sounds

But in all the ways that matter

Is virtually devoid of feeling

Out of touch with reality

The grit and dirt

Punch in the gut

Throw yourself off a bridge

Full-bodied meaning of it

Then maybe it is a form of poetry.

What makes you ask?”

“Well you just wrote it

And I thought you might know.

It means nothing to me.”

“I guess that answers your question

My friend.”

“How so?”

“If words once joined

Together in a sentence

Don’t mean something or

Move you in some way

Then they are just an exercise

In flatulence.

The rip of the wind

Pulls the hidden world

Out into the open

Revealing an inner core which when all is told

Is without natural beauty

Or wisdom

And reeks of self-indulgence.”

“Ah yes…now that I did get.

You were being ironic.”

‘Oh good…thanks for that

I better write it down

Before I forget.”