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Poetry

There may not be magic
But there is poetry
Poetry is easier to define
And no one is in charge of its occurrence
It just happens endlessly in life
And depending on what sort of person you are
Or think you are
You might find it more or less regularly
Amongst the broken rubble of your existence
Peeking out in the shape of an unexpected meeting
A troublesome illness, an ironic twist
And thanks to the modernists
It doesn’t even have to come in the form of a neat verse
It can in fact be clumsy and not in the least pretty
Alone in the eye of the perceiver
Does it hold value
Which makes it much like other things, or non-things
That strike a note in the cold chambers of the heart
Once warmed by love, or hope, or whatever
Now held together
With the glue of simply being
And not knowing what else to do

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