POETRY : A MYSTERY OR MISERY ?

Morality is relative,
so does its consequences remain too,
in every deeds and misdeeds of man,
in survival, in poetry,
but we must do something -

as equal as not doing anything.
I am a poet but sometimes,
I just wished I am a bird -
one that knows not what it is doing
but is of certainty to something significant -

survival,
in a life seeming like a vacuum
for something is either missing
to complete life itself.
If life is not complete, then poetry -

in an abyss.
There is nothing as good poetry,
poetry is poetry -
for there is nothing as the best.
I lay by the rotten carrion of vultures -

wanting to know,
what poetry is from the underworld,
wanting to know if there are poets in Hades
or poetry is the fine tuned melody
for men on paradisal fountain.

The look I got was bloody, blank. 

bloody, but it tells a story of who a poet is.

A poet lives in foesdom,
an open mind will call it fatality
but no ! It is reality..

Poetry is real, foesdom is real.
But then, does friendship exist
in the world of a poet ?
Realism opposes friendship,
foesdom is inescapable -

for you and I are enemies to somebody,
somebody is a threat to you and I -
but is it a mere threat or enmity ?
The streamline of a poet
acts with dominance,

foesdom is dominant.
Friendship, recessive.
Does a poet get entwined in love ?
Whether or not love exists,
I don't know -

in the school of thought,
love is but a nostalgic view,
constructed on skepticism.
I don't know if poets ever loves -
but I know, hormones do clash.

It is nature. Inescapable.
If you find these rareness in a man,
call him a poet.
But what is poetry ? Poetry is unknown,
who knows the unknown ?  Humans ??

How do we know that the unknown
is known by humans ?
Poetry has no end,
we can never conclude.
We can always be at a dagger point,

for poetry itself is oblivious.
So let's dig, merry, dig and realise 

our eternal ignorance till death.
For life itself is unrest,
this constant unrest makes me want to die.

But while we are still alive,
let's sip in this cup of misery
we chose to call mystery..
for whether poetry is mystery or misery,
epistemic proofs won't justify.

© Balogun Yusuf Gemini