“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.
I am not a classic
written by the author God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.
I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a color,
whose colors have worn away.
Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.
I am only a drop of verse.
Related story
How to identify your skin type
