Reflections

Perhaps there's still some poetry left,
somewhere,even when there are no beginnings
and no ends. Living in some alleyways beyond blur,
like the nomad sand, like the wistful wind.
Sometimes it comes barefoot, like silence.

There were stories once.
Unfolding from every corner
which held the reminder of your absence
till the eyes got so used to it that the reminder 
needed to go away to realize something was missing.
Like the absence of sparrows.

That was a part of me. With rough jagged edges
as some words can be. I took some home, while the others 
wandered, as such it was never perfect.
Never a poem.
Until the day you came and I understood
that poetry is never written, it is lived.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i always wonder at those people who sit down to write poetry, as if it ever comes when it is called

sometimes when i am lucky, poetry comes and sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

You amaze me. I was lost in this completely. The last line works so beautifully...haunting in itself.