| |
A Poem Is Never Fiction
O, no madam, a poem is never fiction
Not the ones I write
That got some throbbing of loins and heart
Some blood squirting from the lungs
Some epileptic seizures, so the mouth froths
But these are solid substances of my life
The anxiety of today and the sleepless night
I rhyme love with hate
And turn pain into broken syntaxes
But every bit happens
Thunderclouds just take a long time to cry
Tears are suspect in the lost of virility
Why would you call a poem fiction then
How can the imagination lie
When poetry writes the science of the modern world?
O, no madam, a poem cannot speak a lie
Unless you confuse it with a bride.
Copyright ©
David Smalling
|