The Poem Knows How To Write Itself
This poem is a boy
Who walked away from his
Father's portrait, he didn't like
The fact that he wore a cloth that
Bears the same print as the old man's
In his 30s.
He wanted to be
Everything his father wasn't
But he kept coming back to watch
The dead man's ways, from the portrait
That carried his face & remains from
The tomb in the backyard.
Sometimes he ran into
Water too, feeling there's a fire
Inside him burning into pitch darkness.
His girlfriend told him before she left
That he was not different
From a blind man
Waiting to pick the pieces
Of daybreaks.
That he was a rose
In the hands of the shadow
Of a fallen soldier running into
Everyone standing by the grave at
His own funeral.
She also said he was
His father's failure; the darker shades
Of every dreamer's night.
He left home one morning
& never returned, but no one searched,
Or drooped for the taste of his arrival.
He will find himself
Somehow
In this poem.
That knows how best to start
& to climax.
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