We Choose Our Poems

  We are really pros in the art of crashingthe destination we so much desire,foxes really deciding the fruitbeing too high, or too low for that matter.Some could even cast their dreamsupon their most educated guesses.But unwilling as they are, however,they brood but others’ wits and desires,the estranged, desperate dramas  of a not so much a productive magic. We are the fruits we dreamed to be;but few of us are willingto act as if our thoughts really mattered. We share the self placating opportunities,morphing  wills and chances, these hopesbeneath our supersticious shadows. They venture our true solaceunto the lucky turnsof the Fates,  the senseless pickof the careless, the fat handoutat the expense of the poor and needy. However, hidden in the warmth and joyof stupendous words and phrases,  we cultivate the pearls of the better life.
Thus embraced by the colorful weaveupon the burnings of the precious heart,the wise designers keep silent beyondthe brightness of the sun,the insistent, sacred voiceof the Poem we did choose to live,when choice was at the par with living.