Is the poem etched in ice as useless as a bird's chirp or the Bee's sting
As useless as a youth's heart full of love come spring
Or does it melt, seep into the soil to quench the flower's first thirst
Which then emerge when it seems the entire
Earth bursts
With colors that cover the full spectrum
To dull and again explode in autumn
Or is it the same as Jack painting his pains
On window panes and the grass blades
An expression lost on those not in the moment
for those exposed, engaged, the experience- fulfillment
True it may be, I speak of worthless things
Hopeless love and a heart's meanderings
But if this be true then so too this life
Take away these, we're left only strife
So, I'll scratch my letters into this frozen lake
When it warms, let the waters take
My words, poems, and silent prayers
For they were never mine, always theirs
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