If a poem knew it was a poem, then
Would it cease to exist anymore?
And would its meaning scrawled in pen
Crash and burn in a heap on the floor?
Or would this shattered poem now rise
And begin to wander about, now free
Under the scattered starlit skies
Trying to find what it could be
It could walk over the hills and vales
And through every grassy blade
Traversing knolls and verdant trails
Through swampy fen and glade
Searching for its inner essence
It walks the lands and ponders
Beneath the heavens' luminescence
The lonely poem wanders.
Finally in a mountain grotto dim
The poem rests, to pause and think
About what's the true meaning for him
How he and the universe link.
And in that moment he realises his goal
And the meaning he held within
He suddenly felt complete and whole
In the universe he had entered in.
His true purpose was to hold the words
Of tragedy and joy and of fear
To capture the song of a 1000 birds
And to hold a single fallen tear.
To store into words all memories and songs
All feelings and thoughts and prayers
To treasure all rights and terrible wrongs
All of our hopes and cares
And in that moment that poem it seems
Saw the unspoken truth of verse
As a reliquary for human dreams
And the feelings of the universe.
This self aware poem then thought of its state
As illumined lines to ponder
And for the world to use it as an empty slate
It disappeared to lands down yonder.
