This poem is ridiculous
in its intent
It presumes too much
as it dances around the truth
It doesn’t address
the source of it
It sings of its intent
without meaning a word of it
It deals in syllables and meter
without decision as to why
those matter
Shifts them from my hand
to your hands
And again doesn’t matter
in the slightest
Except for the truth
in its very marrow
That you need
to sort through
to get to
the back of the bone
This poem is ridiculous
except for all the others
I have written
that tried to do the same
and failed
like a butcher who failed to cut meat
like a child who forgot how to cry
like a man who looked at his hands
decried them as having failed
in their intent
in what he intended for them
to do
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T