Sunday, September 26, 2021


 Poem #28

A poem is only truly itself

The moment you write it

Or the first time you read it 

And then it’s gone.

It’s just what you needed

But only for that one time.

Like the gasping breath that fills your lungs

The second you crest the surface

After being submerged too long.

But it’s also the one after that

And then the ones that follow

In sequentially declining amplitudes.

No one expects you to catch them all.

But the poems are always there,

Hiding nondescriptly in each moment,

Doggedly keeping you alive

Whether you notice them or not.


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