The Leiry Loop

What is poetry

but prose denied

of its limbs; when

in place of its arms

there are sticks?

What is poetry

but prose beheaded

and run on with

spikes; arteries

left hanging without

words spilling out?

What is poetry

but prose without

a tongue; of prose

with no feet to go

against the whims

of time?

What is poetry, then

but a premeditated murder

that did not go as planned?

Of prose slaughtered

ruthlessly in cold-blood?

Ah, this might be so—

for poetry is but prose

with no more hands,

and one more soul.