Perhaps they are diverse
the times of the poet and the poem
in texture and in essence, as on the pages of the books
and the conceptual womb of being written
then delivered to be read
through which both pass.

Perhaps they touch
the times of the poem and the poet
only fleetingly, like fingertips that touch
for one last second, before a farewell
and leave but the faint, ellusive tingle
of a very first hello.

Perhaps they breathe
the times of the poet and the poem
dissonant layers of the same air
and perhaps the poet finds his birth
when he inhales the moment for the poem exhaled
to die, and yet
perhaps that very instant is the first
of the poem pervading other lips
to become the recited death
of another poet, upon the lips
of his newborn muse.

Perhaps they are inscribed
the times of the poem and the poet
one in blood, the other in the veins
through which both flow
upon - or maybe under
- the memory of the skins one of them slit
and of the souls the other one healed as both
fluently gushed, through the cut.

Perhaps they simply face each other
the times of the poet and the poem
before a paradoxical mirror that reflects lucidity
in arguable profiles of shade
and perhaps they will never truly meet, then merge
for the time of the poem is ever to turn away
and walk beyond the page of its release
while the poet stays and yet soars aloft
those wings utopian of infinity
that he forever seeks, amazingly
not within himself, but always far
within the time for yet another poem
to take both even farther
across some magic worlds of words unfolding
beyond a sky where time
is but a dream.

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations