Incommunicado

September 16, 2007 at 8:10 am Leave a comment

In a community of poems,
I stumbled across,
A mute poem engaged in a game.
I tried to talk, but it will not budge.
Not of pride or of spite,
But of innocence of any clue,
Of the world of meaning it held,
Behind that lovely playful face.

I wished to know its secret home,
Hidden in woods where its muse lived.
I longed to hear it tell its tale,
How it grew in house of muse,
Playing with words, singing with rhymes,
Under the cover of the haze of thoughts.

Yet it sat, lost in a play,
Silly game of dashes and dots.
Saw me as some rock or tree,
That nods at the wisdom,
Of the game it played.

Shall i join this game in hope,
Someday it will tell its tale?
Or shall i leave the poem in its play,
Like i did with its peers before ?

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Plain Old Telephone Reason to smile

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