No Sense

Music is always loved, every piece that is heard, felt. And yet I can play none, not a chord, not a note. Art is always stunning, every piece that is studied, beheld. And yet I can produce none, not a drawing, not a painting. A nosegay is always fragrant, every one that is inhaled, scented. And yet I draw in no aroma, not a whiff, not a redolence. Food is often tasty, pieces that are chewed, digested. And yet I feel like none, not a repast, not even a snack. The loved are always cherished, every one that is clung to, kissed. And yet I have none, not a darling, not one even held. Our own selves are always explained, every fragment that is we. Yes I have those, even grains, slivers, particles, but, as you see, not a part of me evokes reason. (Jul 2022)