Taste of Life: A Poem
Inexpressible verses stuck in his throat
with glitter in eye of tear that won't form
distant piano's dying final and sad note
and poet's muse hesitant, though warm.
Night. Long and yet not long enough
for all rhymes choking and not birthing
his mocking mind still serving crazy stuff
with buried alive verse crying for unearthing.
Half bottle later, and clock chime coming sooner
then dam gives in, words spill all heavy and true
a poet turns out from that disconnected mooner
with some finest words that his soul could brew.
Verse after verse in a dizzying waltz of rhymes
words drawing hearts with arrows stuck in them
a face-tick of a smile brings in some happy times
now another sip, and cheers to a rose's cut stem.
The poem is done, but why so incomplete,
why so much more feels left out and untold
not bitter enough, and neither enough sweet
something that in a poem just could not unfold.
Is the taste of life impossible to share,
something doomed to forever stay mute?
But then, should we even bother and care
let's leave it mysterious, cute, and yes---brute.