Second By Second

You cannot read a man's poetry without trying on his thoughts, even if only for a moment or two. You cannot read of loss, unconfirmed hope, dread or expectation without a sense of the minutiae of him, harrowing his lonely way through time. You cannot write a poem without placing hidden quantities of yourself within, revealing the yet undiscovered by the very words you cho​ose. If life and prosody sometimes get in the way of alliteration and pure metaphor, well you could hardly be blamed; living through each hour tediously, as you do second by second by second.