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Monday, April 12, 2010

To Those Who Can't Read Poetry


it was a Monday night,
and we were going to the theatre,
you had scolded me on how love
was like watering a flower
on the hottest day
of a long summer

and your sudden poetry
had made me laugh, perhaps
a little insensitively:
flowers just open up
to the light, they don't worry
about how they'll bloom
I'd said figuratively,
that's what makes them
so beautiful you see

and you had looked at me,
at the exact same spot
where you said you needed water,
and I had talked of light,

yet instead of turning to the other,
we had brought a drought
to a cracked soil in which
our roots had dried outright.


it was a Monday night,
and we were going to the theatre,
but on the shore of solitude
we had abandoned each other;
and we didn't believe
love could move us further --

and you'd began to cry, but
like the rain that comes too late
to resurrect withered flowers
buried in an autumn's haste,
and its dampness washes out
the air needed to resuscitate,
it did no good: if goodbyes
were said love would not wait,
or would burn elsewhere,

and we stood on that spot
as I gave you back to your care,
and love burnt itself out
on an unkempt fire, as I said:

love should be enough for love to be,
but we had looked for meaning
like those who can't read poetry,
on the outside rather than within.

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