I thought about it
I thought about it
About how poets get that perfect phrase
At the perfect time, at the perfect line
As if the angels knew
That when he'll write it and when we'll need it
And when he writes
The way his words flow
My god, the staggering feeling in my heart
With a pinch of rivalry,
And a garland full of amorous roses: love.
I thought about it
Why the poets want to cry
The threnody they decide to play
The elegies they through in my direction,
I get now, the love of melancholy
No, its not masochistic, its romantic
The aestheticism of losing joy
And euphoria of finding it back.
I thought about it
Why the poets have no fear of death
No fear of losing time
The cryptic circle of darkness
Running along edges of their notebooks
It's scary for us, who haven't found beauty
In the magnificent entropy of life
But for them, Nyx is their favourite time.
I thought about it
Why the poets are philophiles
Why every word coming out of their notebooks
The charm which knocks us over with feather
The roses in their sonnets
And kisses in their sestinas
Even if they haven't fallen in love themselves
They've fallen in love with the ism of love.
I thought about it
Why poets are always so extreme
Why they feel so much, why they lament so much,
Why they're making you fall in love, why they're bringing you out of a noxious amour
Why he'll smile at you
And astonishingly, fall in love with you,
Make you his muse, his canvas, his only mural.
I thought about it
That how incredible it is
To paint the words, flowing through your mind
And pretend that your one of them.
The poets.