Mirage
I once read a poem. It’s style was different than mine. Then I thought. Won’t it be nice to write about jacarandas & marigolds. Spices and all that taste nice. I reasoned. Won’t my readers love occasionally. To see a sweet poem with color. One that is simple. Without a care in the world. Skipping along like nobody’s business.
I thought. One with no intrigue. No scratching your head. To decipher what the hell did he mean. A poem without pretense. Not high falluting signifying nothing, Just words on paper. Not flat or boring. One without meaning. Like Jack Sprat and his wife and the platter. Or three men in a tub. Rub a dub dub.
But life won’t let me. The daily attack on the senses. The quest for the legal tender. Lies, sickness and death. A mirage like all else. I used to think I knew it all. Then one day. It changed. Like this poem. An illusion. No sweetness. No color. The same style.
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