Moon lined dreams merge in sad innocence,
For all she knew was poetry in its entirety.
"Fragments", Freud suggests. But poetry
Doesn't work that way. Skip a line,
Skip the flow. Skip a word, skip the poem.
Explaining to a band of hot-headed barbarians,
What poetry means and how an empty set
Signifies void and incompleteness, isn't
Easy. Given that these idiots weren't
Accepting, whatsoever. Our apple-pathways
Collided at the right time, together we
Transformed whatever the moon lit dreams
Spoke of, in colours unimaginably bright.
She was poetry: played a tune with her fingers-
The rhythm was imagination, the style was
As free as spirits be. She was poetry: beautiful,
Hardly understood, structured, whole. She
Was the verse that flowed into another like
The river meandering and finding its way
Through the crevices on permanent rocks.
She inspired poetry alongside being one
Herself. Love, giggles, home-all the same.
She taught and learnt like a poem handed
Down the years, forever-changing in its
Meaning but intact in its words. And I
Look at her like a poem I can never create
But yet love dearly and wholesomely
Because poetry lives in entirety,
Much like friendship.
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