Today cannot be a Poem

see, today cannot be a poem…

even though it unravels like a heavy scroll,
a secret note
from a caravan of spices and silks
lost on a mountain track just wide enough for curiosity;

though it waits in the armpit of a hesitant clock,
an empty scabbard
filling with shreds of spongy sunset
curdled by the timeless sword of ennui;

though it cries with the sound of the desert rain,
a pencil caricature
of cubes of frozen light
drowning in the cast iron goblets of reality;

see, today can never be a poem…

even though it writes on these diagonal lines
an absent truth
with wordless fingers that unkiss the lies
on the the clenched lips of made up memory.