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Shifty
The transition
between blocks
leaves us missing
something.
A blank
that should have been filled.
Given the time,
I would have forgiven the rhyme
for its finite
grabbability
of my muse
still in captivity
behind Language's ruse.
We'd love to spill
lines that redefine
the way we perceive the signs
on Poetry's street corner,
just waiting for us
to jaywalk into a metaphor.
But left behind
are fading footprints
of what we could've had
if we just stayed a little longer
in the past.
There's no one way around it:
Something is always lost
in the shift
from here to there.
And we can't know
which paths
dissolve
or materialize
until the move.
Yeah, move with me.
Not everything is what
it assumes to be.
But it's cool,
if we let sunshine settle
on meadows
where the moon would be.
And adapt to the flexural form
of our muse.
Rhyme
until it's so random
you've nothing to lose.
And the truth will emerge in tandem:
That a poem
is a chameleon of rambles,
acclimatized
to no weather.
And loyal
to the variable.
An un-attackable scandal...
