... And Who Never Came With A Book Of Poetry Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

...and who never came with a book of poetry
no matter how small except at Easter time
to welcome the spring like a homework task
for the school of death at best when masked
in points and counter- dissimilation attitudes
uncompromised by the timidity of so innocent a light
smashed by too many windows
playing he games of wholeness
when nothing in reality could reflect the glass

...and who never learned anyhting from mistakes
but took them all and put them aside
so that someone else could call that life
while erraneous they knew they'd live forever
under the names of unknown stars
than never thought of a single rhyme
in dots and joints counting the syllables
where no word could find its place
to live long enough to pronounce
the syncopal nature of things most sublime
bathing in their pauses in the realms of freedom
with no fear to share with so much to dare
the rise and fall of the moon and sun

...and who called the waters by the name of souls
heavily dripping in wet slides of cloud dust
humidity and mist being the only sign
that the things ever lived and called themselves
divinities dainties gods of now broken lights
pouring down clay made caleidoscopic images of time