on poetry

on poetry

it’s the end of the world
despairs the optimist
no, it isn’t
replies the pessimist

i don’t quite remember where
i heard that expression
whether by my own mind
or another’s volition

but still, even now,
it resides in my brain
a testament to poets
and originality feigned

my words move now heavy
leather-bound and enchained
with soft steps and movements
over marks of the pained

for the poem is a graveyard
buried deep in the earth
but one of the few
that encourages re-birth