Where the poem dies

Is this how a poem dies?
Does it occur with closed fists, belly full of thousands of
Dead butterflies never seeing air,
Your name bottled up while I swim down the rivers of my tears
And my mouth becomes but yelps from a mad dog
Aching for a more loyal companion?
I wished it every day through
Misguided attempts, romantic fails,
Through canyons of longing
And hurdles of neon lights and
Hospital dazed vision boards
to reach you.
I dreamt of our meeting just as I have dreamt
Of our parting, eyes staring blankly into the abyss of others who kiss
But do not pierce my soul.
You were everything but indifferent.
All I have now is a film reel full of confusion, friends who cannot
Decipher my sadness, reality striking down as a gavel with the innocent verdict thrown out the window.
Is this how a poem ends,
Always hardly before it arrives?
Just like us
Exacty like you and I.

2 thoughts on “Where the poem dies”

  1. We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same

    Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-

    Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.