01-06-2011, 09:17 PM
my aunt wants me to write a “happy” poem for her,
something soft and delicate, like the first morning of spring,
or warm cotton booties, fresh from the tumble dryer,
nothing about murders, please, or ne’er-do-wells and suicides;
if it must come from your soul, then change what your soul is.
but doesn't my dear auntie see, that midnight is a part of me?
and where the ripper joins his prey, in darkest Whitechapel,
I too reside, typing this poem for you now. I could smile at puppies,
heavenly sunshine, and laugh at children’s flatulence,
but doing so would kill my craft, and break just who I am.
something soft and delicate, like the first morning of spring,
or warm cotton booties, fresh from the tumble dryer,
nothing about murders, please, or ne’er-do-wells and suicides;
if it must come from your soul, then change what your soul is.
but doesn't my dear auntie see, that midnight is a part of me?
and where the ripper joins his prey, in darkest Whitechapel,
I too reside, typing this poem for you now. I could smile at puppies,
heavenly sunshine, and laugh at children’s flatulence,
but doing so would kill my craft, and break just who I am.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe