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Time is a cliche.
There's unretreivable past,
ungraspable present,
and unknowable future;
there's regretful perfect,
and second-guessing subjunctive.
No,
I will not use Time in this poem.
Angels are cliches.
They're whiter than white, like their purity;
they have wings, to lift them to an omniscient height;
their tears are more valuable than the world;
and they are the messengers of unqualified Grace.
No,
I will not use Angels in this poem.
Love is a cliche.
It entices enthrallingly,
but, when one is in its grasp,
the jaws snap shut,
and the pain is all the worse for being ineluctable.
And yet, even that pain is sought for.
No,
I will not use Love in this poem.
The Stars are cliches, or a single cliche.
They shine weakly in the city and brightly in empty space,
like friendships;
they sparkle like hopes and unattainable diamonds,
and, like dreams, you see them brighter obliquely.
No,
I will not use Stars in this poem.
For even if the Angels gave me enough Time,
not even the Stars could convey my Love.
So I will not use them in this poem.
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◆ From: 122.124.101.244
※ 編輯: spacedunce5 來自: 122.124.101.244 (07/22 22:59)