I had to write this poem again.
I left the first draft on the train
and now it doesn’t look the same.
The original was a paean to Love,
to Truth, to Beauty. It soared above
the everyday and all that stuff.
It would have healed estranged lovers’ rifts,
stilled the sands on which time shifts
and stopped the world before it drifts
further into quagmired crisis,
ended famine, toppled ISIS.
Employed ingenious literary devices.
I tried my hardest to recall
its words and rhymes, the rise and fall
of the carefully cadenced crawl
through the English language.
But it caused me pain and anguish
for there was little I could salvage.
It certainly didn’t end with a line like this.