A poem is like a crystallized emotion,
preserved in a jar for all time to see.
Yanked free of context, and held up to the light,
A memory entombed in words,
Sympathetic magic sharing tragedy to make it livable,
Synthetic love resting on the shelf.
Just buy some, take it home, and slowly sip.
An instant of irrelevant time ,
viewed through a distorted, all-important lens.
Discard the picture, and study the camera,
for therein lie the secrets.
Perhaps a bid at immortality,
outlasting a fragile shell through one intangible
Or, maychance, a random stream of chaos
in an all-too-ordered world.