“Is obscurity – the very trick that makes them beyond reach, almost mystical – merely a game laid-out to trap you? Is this fair?”
It is not the altitude which made it unreachable
or its depth which made it never unearthable
It is the hubris which ascends poets in pretense
and preempts their craft from being reached
It is a hollow receptacle filled with illusions
guided by their awe to mysteries
and their insatiable curiosities
“Yup, poets are calculating merchants trading on sentiments. Once you read a sad poem just think: A ghost is pulling your legs. It’s not real.”
real. not real. unreal. never real.
poets but exist within contexts and symbols.
without – never real.
they are those who seek life in lifeless letters
and warmth in cold phrases
in the most idealistic way.
Inspired by Edel Garcellano’s Anti-Poem