|Oct/Nov 2009 Poetry|
I am writing you a poem. I know, it looks like a letter, but trust me. This is a poem trapped inside a letter that is actually a poem looking like a letter. I can make it look like a poem if you don't believe me:
cleaning my desk of dust
feelings of retribution,
those things I should have done and
I want to assure you that this is truly what it is, a poem. I stress this because letters are fleeting and polite, but poems are True. Letters pass with red hands in circles. Poems exist in space, expanding. Letters live and die. No, letters are dead before. Poems are Elijah. Letters are Congratulations! Poems are This is closer to your beginning. In the end we all want Poems.