Jon R.T.

What is poetry to me?
I can’t say.
I’m not a poet.
A dusty tome of words from learned fame resting to impart feelings.
Pay a king's weighted penny and they will bound,
them in press neat publish.
Written for consumption by the maul of pupils.
Fare hanging gems of gilded script not dangled yet they form a string.
Its meaning gives it sustenance.
Fill it with commonality of personable identity and we nod to each other in understanding.
I could nudge it off the ball point acid free pulp.
No longer needed.
The ink now dries digitally.
The fear of being forgotten!
A poet?
[Our naked humanity] || as.
Life’s wet pigment.
A livid glossy dream mirror filled with atoms fire.

Jon R. Thomas