I Do Not Like Poetry And Other Lies

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You’d love to drink from this

Gourd of freshly tapped wine

Crowned with balls of froths,

But I see that your face grows short

Of smile when it hits you that 

You must crack the wisdom of 

Divinity hidden among the lines

That race in circles round the 

protruded belly of the gourd,

So, you stalk off claiming that 

Wine is  a murderer of sanity anyway. 

 

You’d kill to wear those strings

Of beads that will carry fiercely the 

Gayness of rainbow colours to your waist 

And make your strides sound like

The best thing after light showers 

Of rain, Yet 

The furnace of anger bellowing in 

Your pupils glowers at me

When it dawned on your eager heart

That the beauty of the beads is a puzzle–you must 

Severe its cord at its point of oneness and each

Bead must taste the rock-hard unfriendliness of the

Ground in forceful disunity, you would, then, reconcile 

Them with their string and make them 

Chant in rainbows, sun, and clear skies.

You twist your lips in a hiss, calling beauty 

A pain you do not wish to bear. 

 

You do not hate poetry, 

But the painstaking hard work of breaking 

its riddles to extract clarity,

Wipe your mouth clean of the lie that it’s forceful,

And confess, with your knees bowed that you

You only fear the chilly force of its hailstones of truths. 



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