How Poetry Survives Dying Souls

The skill of losing, it lies within our grasp,
Many a thing seems designed to drift and fade,
Their loss, no tragedy, but a fleeting gasp.

Each passing day, surrender with no rasp,
Keys misplaced, hours squandered, let them evade.
The skill of losing, it lies within our grasp.

Progress further, hasten losses, oh, clasp
Scenes, names, destinations, dreams betrayed,
None of these trials invite disaster’s rasp.

My mother’s timepiece vanished, its final gasp,
A cherished home, lost, one of three arrayed.
The skill of losing, it lies within our grasp.

Two cities, once adorned, now shadows cast,
Realms, rivers, a vast continent betrayed.
I long for them, yet no catastrophe amassed.

And even you, with jesting voice amassed,
Beloved, gone, but truth, unswayed,
The skill of losing, it lies within our grasp.

Though seeming dire, this art, it holds no clasp,
For in its depths, a soul’s strength displayed,
The skill of losing, it lies within our grasp.

:: 07.05.2023 ::