Why can’t I just write poetry,
About lovers’ perfumes?
Or angels’ graces?
Or irony’s lure?
Or absurdity’s eternity?
Or any other ‘poetic’ poetry?
I enjoy reading it from time to time,
And could probably emulate the prototypes,
If I tried…
Yet when I close my eyes to write,
I see unspoken realities waiting to be sung…
Will I change with time?
And start painting dreams?
Or playing with sounds?
Or writing tears of joy & sorrow?
Who’s to say if the sun will rise tomorrow?
We can only wait and see,
What will yet become of me…