1

You are far more empty,
kept alive more by habit
than passion,
not quite agile enough
to navigate the weather,
but agile enough
to function in still waters
the perfect picture,
an artist in still waters,
the madness
so deep within
not a ripple stirs.

2

The end is not what you expected.
It never is.
Each step changes the scenery,
far more than mere distance
should allow.
3

It is not warm enough
to take off your shoes,
but you do it
anyway,
Willing to suffer
the almost cold
to defy the lingering snow
simply because you know
spring
is coming
4

Anger
may create the illusion
of power,
but it lacks the most essential
strength.
It cannot create, only destroy,
building not castles
but prisons
where you are abandoned
by the cowering minions you loved
and punished for
the one unforgivable act –
being loved.
5

You dance,
no matter who is looking,
no matter
who thinks you drunk
or mad,
or perhaps a sad relic
of love.

old fashioned,
beautiful, slightly outdated,
a gorgeous fire,
barely contained.

About this poem

Actually, I am not sure this IS a poem. I write fragments of poetry all the time. Snippets of verse that never feel complete. They pile up – on note cards, in my journal, on scraps of paper. Early this morning I wondered if it would be possible to piece a few together into something resembling a complete poem. And this is what I got.

Is it A poem? Or is it just a jigsaw where the pieces fit together, but the pictures don’t match? I am not sure. But it was fun to do, and I may do more.

Tom