Poet

The sun begs me not to write of it
the moon begs me not notice it
the night shrinks before my sight of it
someone begs me not to comment on it

The skylarks beg me not to sing of it
the surreal begs me not for oranges to grow
the river bends away as if to go
the singers didn’t write it

Others thought they knew
while they tried to define the soul
some broke it, finding they couldn’t bring it back
some tried to mend it, while they cried

Some never knew it had gone
till it left, with the tables and chairs
some thought they had the best of it
Then had to run from it

The rose’s don’t want me to mention it
not this night, where hearts break for it
and some pay for it, in dollar bills or pounds
some even bleed for it or stop eating for it

Some don’t sleep for its loss
and a few of us write for it
words of passion and words reused
a man falling off a bridge not knowing its touch

Most children get it unconditional
but don’t mention that
as a poet as observed
your clemency, but offers
no clear remedy

Yet

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