It is said that poetry in need of an explanation is already lost in its translation
Perhaps it was more my wish, never understanding the mystery intellect that justified painful words from an English institution having grown weary of my inability to understand as I too grew weary of their inability to make simply the Poet’s song
If it were your intent to speak to the common man then so too it would have been your responsibility to make him understand
Poetry should neither be spoken as short or long nor should it be this entangled labyrinth from which you never exit from, it should be neither right or wrong nor should it be held responsible for some soothing life saving syncopation.
Poetry is a ship at sea without a flag of distinction, taking on all lost souls found overboard having felt a sense of abandon it should mean the world to you and nothing at all to those just choosing to pass on through.
Poetry in its simplicity of pen to paper, its smallest of words moving the greatest of mountains while driving the insecurities of Kings and Queens to drain the life blood of its authors in fear of losing their crowns to those earning less than a crown, making music in the minds of those moved to change without making a sound. Its ability to bring fantasy to reality is seconded by no other verse in our known universe, stimulating the imagination to heights of power greater than any army.
Poetry can at times be mightier than the sword, sharper than a knife, savior from the Killing fields, creator of the brightest of stars in the darkest of night, rescuer of lost souls, mender of broken hearts, and where great men have failed “A writer takes his pen to write the words again that all in love is fair.”
And in your silence, when in the quieting of your mind, you need only to sit still my dear and know that soon, in my words you will feel me there.