Cannot be captured in poetry
It belongs to the dark hours of soul
Not to the printed page.
There are many rules for verse
(Most of them self-imposed)
But see, Despair follows none of them
It escapes from all your haikus
Leaving them merely miserable
And extracts itself from all your sonnets
(Perhaps its shroud of bitterness
Will catch on the last line)
But Despair can't be tricked
Into imprisoning herself in anything
So restrictive as an a-b-a-b rhyme scheme.
She floats free in the desperate
Garbled sobs of the abandoned child
And the empty eyes of the abused mother
(I've seen her in the shadows of the bedroom wall
In the curve of my tears down my cheeks)
A picture is a thousand words, they say.
Why not draw Despair instead?