Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe
This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay
The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page
Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries
How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near
You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come
Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array
We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover
A repost I wrote for my bror, Sverre G. Holter after his recent breakup.