Poetry Is...

I have found
poetry is invariably
not unlike a candle
that burns out
having consumed
its possibilities.
The theme going through
various stages,
of loss,
into idealism,
which is always dead
idealism,
nothing fleshed,
nothing to touch,
nothing interactive,
no answer ever,
nothing of the beloved,
no affections,
only mourning
of lack and loss,
as the candle burns
until it has consumed itself
and then perishing
alone
into no more
than the dark.
That does not prevent
dreams
of wanting it
to be more than that,
as if a candle
can be lit
and something better
might happen,
rather than perishing
into the dark
as it flickers out.