Measures

It’s not whether
the words read are wise
the songs sung are deep
the poems found by
trembling hands
fumbling
flicking
clicking
searching for something
have some wonderful meaning
to impart to all mankind,
an immutable,
immortal Truth
to foretell.
(It’s not whether
they don’t,
for that matter.)
It’s just the perspective.
The needing to hear,
the straining forward
to read,
the heart thumping
under tingling skin,
wanting to believe,
eyes blurry with tears
at each supposed
realization.

Desperate.

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