Words as Dandelions
“That verse is about me,” you say.
I say that it is about… to lose any meaning.
Verses disintegrate,
as you dissociate
—as you do, so I will—.
As they fall out of sight
—they’re not strong—,
you forget them.
“Verses which I know by heart…
played a role in shaping my mind,” you say.
Some might say those made up theirs.
What if I say that the poet
was always undecided?
What if I tell you ‘I told you’ in a poetic manner? A prelude to the truth, now set aside.
Voices in my head;
words paint the canvas.
Your shadow weighs a ton?
So does the pen.
Its words? They can float
and they vanish in air.
For if it’s not remembered,
then it never existed…
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Reveries That I Call Poetry 
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