@Clintbling 26 September 2020

I Thought About It

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.