By Bhakti Patel
This is a poem again.
Not about the deep rivers,
Not about the huge mountains.
Was never about the magnificent sky.
Will never be about the mesmerizing eyes.
Had never been a way to someone's soul.
Have hadn't been a mile away from the scary homes.
This is a poem again.
Again, about the rivers,
That weren't deep,
Deep enough for them to romanticize.
Again, about the mountains,
That weren't huge,
Huge enough for them to aim for the heights of.
Again, about the sky,
That was never magnificent,
Magnificent enough for them to gaze at for hours.
Again, about the eyes,
That were never mesmerizing,
Mesmerizing enough for those said to know love.
Again, about the words,
That never built a way to someone's soul,
Way enough to reach out to the broken inside.
Again, about the scary poems.
They never really were a home,
Home enough to stay in, away from the evils.
This is a poem again.
About all those unbelievably incredible entities that were never seen to be flawless.
It is a poem again for all the unseen beauties.
To all the rivers and mountains they never traveled to.
To all the skies and eyes nobody ever dreamt of.
To all the souls and homes never awaited for.
This is a poem to every perfectly imperfect beauty.
This is a simple poem.
Simple to keep,
For those blinded ones,
Who made this poem a piece of existence.
This is a poem of mine,
That was never heard, seen, or received.