It is not really difficult to know a poet's heart
born out of loss and the cold quiet,
worm-like others who have only dull repetition
of fear, shame, high drama, self-absorbed,
hateful, selfish, ignorant, blind, loveless.
Might as well get acquainted with stones,
talk to the trees,
picnic with the grass, not on it.
Admire the depth of a lake,
a symphony of raindrops,
the song of the wind playing with the leaves
on an experienced band of aspen.
Forest, meadow, river, mountain,
even a glacier is more agreeable than an empty man
who confuses his own stinking shit-for-brains
with the will of God.
John C. Manimas, May 2021
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