The Heart’s Cadence
The beloved voice of poetry, its rhythm, was slain by the surrealist prose, the way love was murdered by domestic life. Flame trees and deserts, like sorrow-drenched narratives— dream-waves come to brush against the truth, winds play in bamboo groves, fathers of children and houses, ancestral non-residences. This place once teemed with people, this land unfit for dwelling. Love had died one day in the tug-of-war of economy; many feelings had turned irrelevant. To understand this world through money— love without value, the burden of the worthless. Like life itself, poetry has no inherent meaning. A singular, complete meaning is almost impossible to create. It must find a mind where meaningless futility still nests, even now— astonished, amazed— rhythm, meaning, measure, verse, full moons were lost long ago, like sorrow-drenched narratives in surreal worlds. Is there a land of the mind? Just enough— where poems dwell in their own glory, in regal arrangements, and eve...