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This poem could have been a butterfly,

the paper stained with cerulean water-marks,

these lines, pulsing veins.

 

This poem could have been a mirror,

here is your image: you are a particle

and a whole.

 

This poem is a miracle

although,

it wasn’t the most auspicious.

 

This poem was doomed

before its beginning,

should not have been written,

it is a poet’s cross.

 

This poem was born poor,

grew up poor,

will die poor.

 

This poem is made out of hay,

there's nothing in it,

not a needle.

 

This poem could have dreams and hopes,

meant for solitary readers

soaring inside a shut room.

 

This poem could be a plane ticket,

to go back somewhere,

or a window and a chair

to see the top of trees.

 

This poem could have been

anything, not everything 

in another flip of coins.

 © Javi Felix ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

 

www.javifelix.com  Todos los derechos reservados © Javier Felipe 2014