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)
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