The Poem

It wasn't true or, benign, or black, or maroon
It wasn't about love, or sun, or experience at all
It wasn't in English, or German, or any language
Death hadn't found it,
Yet neither had life.
It certainly was not about the snow falling for the first time this year
Nor was it about the checkered print my shoes left in it
It wasn't even about me
I have no doubt in my mind that it wasn't about you
It didn't have eyes, or legs, or ears
and because of this it was not human
It was untouched by human nature all together
One like me would think that this must have made it beautiful
but it held no beauty
it held no attraction
It wasn't about the single mother throwing herself at the mercy of
hungry men to find the comfort of stability
or the teenage boys behind bleachers slipping their hands into a pair
of pink panties for the first time
It wasn't about the homosexual getting his ass whooped by barbaric neanderthals
There were also no crack addicts or whores screaming at you for change
No babies crying
No guns fired
No suicide
and no religion
Not at all
It was void of feeling
It shed no tears
It hadn't felt remorse, or heartbreak, or regret
It had never been drunk to lighten the weight of its choices
or to take the sting out of its over worked brain
or to welcome pain
Maybe because it had no liver in the first place
Moral-less and heartless
There were no words to describe it
There were no words at all
It wasn't prejudice
or impartial
or naked
or inspiring

it was nothing.

and it was not any thing.

yet.