If This Were A Song

If this were a song
written without frontiers,
in a season of nothingness,
past picket fences
bent like bows,
past weathered houses
and a penetrating sunlight
that bleaches the grasses gold,
it would be called: loneliness.

If this were a poem
with strong bones
and the heart of a maple leaf,
not technically, but close,
this is, afterall, a poem,
which may or may not
carry a message,
it would be called: imaginary sadness.

If this were a painting
or a photograph
with small hands
and slender limbs,
with pain always in the next room,
and endless ways of hurting itself,
it would be called: gentle longing or cascading madness.

Perhaps, chronic devotion,
or love, that hypocrite.

 Lisa Zaran


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