It’s not always that a poem is birthed by sorrow, but there’s just so much pain at heart when space isn’t bridged by the simplest of communication, such as in saying a “hi” or a “hello”–even if just at tongue’s tip…By perhaps writing down what it is all about, pain becomes a managed passion, and the lover a managed language… 
By eaa1118
Image by AiresAlmeida via Flickr
I may compose your face a poem after all
Though what the poem says may be faceless at all
Words shall have stressed spare solid measurements
Of eyes ears forehead–distance of nose from lips
Yet tow to sense delectabilities of grace
Or charm the poem’s integral wholesome reaps–
O that this matters to you!
Most will have kept the eye on words, and isolate
Mere lovely phrases, but will they be the face
Chosen easy ways out will have simplified the rest
The cheaper prized the inner ears to hear
The lighter premiumed the gestalt eye to see
What the poem speaks of, what the soul it sires–
O that this changes you!
I cannot keep art for more than what it keeps
Else data trumpet falseness of your place
Nor such crude recompense erodes the fertile heart
Growing the soul of fruition from mere paraphrase
How shall you hide me, how won’t I let go
O that some sixth sense seeks the inner glow–
O that you know!
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