not titled
a poem
there are not enough letters,
in any alphabet,
to distill the essence of you.
no vocalization
can hope to capture
your subtle complexity.
words are sounds providing meaning
only to the ones who have learned
to hold those meanings inside.
I tried to etch poetry
imbued from the memory
of your skin resting on mine.
in the end all I created
was a trail of flaking blue ink
scattering in the dank breeze.
fragile letters lifting sunward
from the bleached carcasses of trees
one faint fragment phoneme at a time.
rising high into the azure;
trailing faint whispers
drifting
into what is nameless.



Nice one, imark!
Lovely poem, Istvan.