why are some poor souls compelled
to leave enchanted sleep of daily life
to carve into the psyche?
clairvoyant poets, balladeers
spewing tales and allegories
aphorisms, similes, metaphors
randomly regurgitating phrases,
strands of words sometimes sweet,
sometimes crude, often vague
recording thoughts and feelings,
threads so hard to convey,
most don’t attempt to understand.
proselytizing mystical murmurs,
streams of words forming meaningless,
or meaningful cobwebs.
poetic language, rhymes and rhythms
misinterpreted, inaccurately translated
misread by analysts, misunderstood
by clueless literalists,
taken out-of-context, misquoted
by buffoons smitten with inexactitude.
human beings have a tendency to
search for meaning
even when there is none
do poems have meaning?
does meaning come from the writer,
the reader, the critic or the source?
what is the source
of these random regurgitations,
these half-digested hallucinations,
these feelings of angst and awe
these fears and insecurities,
these vulnerabilities?
why do some poor souls feel compelled
to plunge a dagger into their guts
and bleed onto the page?
are they the universe
trying to comprehend itself?
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge day five.
Desert Dweller 