The end of spring

A couple of poems have been stolen from me. Lost poems are never found again. I have often smuggled remembered parts of lost ones into new ones, but they remain disbelieving trinkets.

I have tried to search for lost poems a few times. It’s futile, without fail. The remembered words are disobedient, and the new words are sad. The result is a sad sad mess. Poems should be sad sometimes. But poems should never be sad.

I lost a poem a moment ago. Something to do with nightmares and dreams and broken glasses. How life seems like an odd dream, with a floating nature, and inconsequential feelings. How beginnings and ends are confused, now, and how the old pair of glasses I am wearing are being considered new. I had an intelligent observation to go with that. Or perhaps I didn’t.

I think it was about the randomness of life. Or perhaps the randomness of poetry, or feelings. It was about randomness, I think. But it randomly disappeared.

One is not supposed to be distracted while writing. It is like losing storylines in dreams. Even if they return, they are never the same. On the bus to somewhere, I thought what others had thought for so much longer. Perhaps life is a dream.

I don’t like myself very much. Except when I do. Then I like myself a lot. Right now, things are rocky. My relationship with myself is a Russian roulette. I keep firing blanks. I am not sure what frightens me, the inevitable bullet, or its lack.

Endings are supposed to tie things up neatly. But endings are hardly enduring. The mystery survives. So I will never know where lost poems go. And I will never know whether the last shot was a blank.




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