Poetry is a Way of Life

Poetry, I think, is a way of life,
Every memory
A tight bundle
Of sights and smells
Wrapped in a fog
Of warm sepia,
A crumpled up experience
Tossed
In the recycling bin.

Every day ends as it began,
With pen in hand, and mouth sewn shut,
The poetry an outflow of my aimless
Subconscious, the written words a
Boat in the thought-waves.

I’ve learned that old memories can’t be tossed
Away, but rather, every memory is a
Piece of a grand jigsaw
Puzzle. I’m made of thought clouds and
Death scenes in black and white.