I never claim to know is mine,
alone.
Perhaps it is a preference of plagiarism,
a nose for improper prose,
an insatiable appetite for
all ilks of altruistic anthema
I could not think
of a better wheel design.
We have learned.
Where there is smoke was once
on fire.
Needs and devours
as borrowed without interest.
Solutions are simple echoes,
echoes
what you said you heard
and comes back if it hits the right note
accord.
You know how others wrought words
work
more harmonized than mine,
in truth themselves together
as wording that works
for real-ity-itty-bity life-like
Projects
and Practice.
By stretch of imagination or by the life-
span of a metaphor
by suspension
and leaps
abound archaic and built to last
for a time-as taut truth
entwined in tension.
Look
out.
Given eyes
to see,
Only art may remind us why
color is requisite to sight.
And why white space is free
breath.
To covet a glance, off the top
take without change
of rubberized opinion
or overcharge for overdrawn spirituality
from a paper One.
I imagine
remembering clearly-
some scattered lines of poetry
in tangled threads,
rags over-stiched spines,
poets opine over each others
dead bodies doing it wrong
turning the soil, lying there
and re-cultivating the Garden of
I Will
re-Discover.
Know only
slowly may one go
to pull open space we need
vacancies never free, but insist
on appearance and flow from Others
Currents
pulled into time by tide.
Drifters
we are all sifters, thieves
of sureness,
presenters of possibilities,
tailors
of time-
space,
altering whose in whose
reality-one time,
rerunning reminiscences
and savoring our own essence
familiar
in-decadence in fortitude
never mine in any time-frame
alone.
Image By Charles Robinson (The Happy Prince and Other Tales) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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