To Be Poetry

If I were poetry,
I’d meld into the earth,
Flowing like a serpent along its roots.
I’d fill up the clouds,
And light bolts across the skies.
Rumbling and shaking the grounds,
Swaying the ocean tides.
 
If I were poetry,
I’d be a dewdrop on a flower at dawn,
Curling beneath a tree,
Becoming hymns to the stars left behind.
 
If I were poetry,
I’d dwell in the light’s void,
The emptiness beyond the white.
Darkness would beckon,
I’d linger there for a while,
Spilling over pages you’ve read a thousand times.

If I were poetry,
I’d be a dying God,
An ode to the eclipse,
A whispered prayer on someone’s lips,
A crossroads towards river Styx.
I’d be the Ferryman, lantern in hand,
Witnessing time passing,
Passing,
Into nothing.
 
I am a poem,
And silence can be loud.
Sometimes I shrivel, I scream.
Sometimes I sing my siren song.
Sometimes I just am,
And that’s all I could ever be.