What I have
But this woe in me
When called to write
It’s poetry
I never write
What I see
For what calms and moves
Is melody
But a distant star
Oh so far
Over strange lands
I travel far
And the things I capture
Are not what I see
For that is a trade
Of photography
If what I taste
Was not preserved
For decades upon decades
Upon scholarly word
I would know far less
Than what I state
For with my words
I alone can’t make
A sound to the eye
Would any try
That doesn’t move
It’s a tempest lie
A distant sound
From another’s lips
You know they like it
When they move their hips
A calm or mood
In spoken text
When it’s learned with the ears
You must confess
I would do some justice
With poetry
For what taste and touch
Can never see
In what I write
I never see
For what world exists
In melody?
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