Synecretism
1 min readFeb 6, 2018
Originality hovers above making,
a malignant mother always poised
to smother her children
with pillows of impossibility.
All poets derive poems from
previously explored possibilities,
from the heaven and hell of history.
No new gods to create perfect gardens.
Even those who rail against tradition
can’t help but swim within it, like
goldfish in an invisible bowl of water,
unseen, unnoticed, but ubiquitous.
There are no new words to write.
Only infinite, potential variations
on scores that have been sung before,
made different, made better, made more.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, please dribble a few coins into the busker’s cup.
Poverty lifts you up to the bottom…
