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.
© Javier Felix ALL RIGHTS RESERVED