What is poetry but a succinct diary,
tapped on a phone,
to the rhythm of the mood.
Oft tired, lethargic to move. Too restless, under the hood.
It is the mild soothe of
an informal dialogue
from oneself
to myself.
It is the mirrored retelling
of spirited pleasure
and the laments of misery.
It is a cheap therapy
paid for by the purse of vocabulary.
It writes itself, (in bed with no light,
bound in a hoodie on a 6 am flight.)
with thumbs creeping across the keyboard briskly,
desiring to capture the precise moment-thought-feeling
of that time, that place:
imbibing the essence of space,
imbuing the whispers of emotion,
imprinting the colour of scene,
impounding the beat of heart.
The rhythm inevitably gets clouded
by the whats-beens, and so
must in equal part be,
A requiem for the moments gone,
a rite for memory’s curse:
For the purest truth
is that moments are irreplaceable,
despite the gift of verse.
Commentary: Written in 2023, during business travel (red eye flight), during a reflection on what Poetry is/could be to me