October 2014 | Poetry/Shortfic


Words are/overrated;
It’s in (un)comfortable silence(s)
That magic lies.

The art of poetry/is thus
Frustratingly paradoxical.


The world is not enough, he said,
The tone vile confidence.
This part not the one for which I was bred,
The smugness a false pretence.
Upon his brow the lines of false smiles
(A mask grown far too soft),
Linger still despite the miles
His features hold aloft.


Rush me, for if I deserved to be
Patiently waiting,
You would know it better than I.
And if the world stood still for a moment,
I could look into your eyes
And see them raining.


They said:you
Couldn’t have it(all
At their word.


The blind understand treason
Probably better than anyone.
The ignorant will think they know it best
But thinking is all they know.

And a mouth knows nothing of the world,
‘Tis the ear that is best equipped.
Sight and touch are as easily fooled,
But what you hear, you know.

Who are we to understand
Where we stand in place?
Our eyes can barely see the land,
Yet we dream of outer space.

© 2015 Pierre Massé