There was a poet called Rumi,
and if you ever feel gloomy,
you could print off his words,
then stick them on your wallpaper,
to paper over the cracks.
The cracks in your vision that lead to revision,
in a cornea and iris so withered,
that your twisted oases and desire for sirens
split like light beams through diamonds,
then converge like perpendicular streams
and dreams that fray,
yet somehow agree
on what their colour should be.
Like the cut of salted cashews
on a tongue drenched,
with the sin and views
of a glass of gin.
Like a burst of sunlight
on the pulpits and carpets,
occupied by a nun
that wants to shine and fly.
I wish that hope was a noun
but it’s a verb,
and to do implies contrast,
between what you can and what you can’t
between what you see and what you believe.
Rumi said
“Life is a balance of holding on and letting go”
But I say
“How can a man so heavy know what you mean?”