Hope is not a feather and you, my dear
are not more lovely than a summer’s day
no matter how you cut it.
Believe what you want,
words make nothing happen
though they survive in hyperbole
and roll around tickling our egos
like trout playing with a drowning fly larvae.
The world is not a stage and you most certainly
not an actor upon it, no matter how less traveled.
You are not some uncaged bird wandering
lonely as a cloud nor a part of the main,
no matter how hard and how long
you close your truthfilled eyes.
You are just you.
Standing there, hair wet, dressed down
unmetaphorical in your naked brilliance and
refusal to wear the make-up of poetry.