Poetry
is all about the moment.
Once
the moment flees,
even
the poet
can’t
recall
the
true essence
with
which the words were crafted.
With
each passing moment,
time construes a different meaning
to the words,
just
as the changing values
of the physical constants
create a different version
of the universe,
each
time the dice are rolled.
The
poet surrenders
to
the whims of imagination
and
hangs on
to
revel in a glimpse,
to
bathe in a waft,
or be swept away by an echo.
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