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even the word beauty

even the word beauty
and the words truth
and life and soul are not enough
(and no matter what word, idea or concept
no matter how sublime, how elevated);
and so all poetry may be
but an illusion,
an image, a mere consolation,
a running away from what actually is…
not wanting or not able to face what is
we dabble with words and memory and image…
and the word is not the thing either
and even the things
are what we might have wished for,
what the human mind rather have
what the mind brings into existence by repetition
and tradition
and may not actually exist independently…
all one has left is what actually goes on in one’s mind