Poets say April showers bring May flowers So too say the liars, the preachers and prostitutes who come to express what they’ve heard, but not what they know. Unlike poets, the doubtful and the disenchanted often cry foul as we together mourn the loss of common sense and decency. A tarnished soul with a litany of pleas, a poet learns words are worth little more than sand if not spoken with wisdom derived from a broken heart, physical traits of emotional details, and second-hand lessons from third-rate teachers. It hurts to bleed. It hurts to need validation. Honesty is not worth what it once was, but comes at a significant cost. April soon, May will surely follow, and politicians will say only what they want to hear (like the prostitutes and preachers). Fraudsters all. Only the poet sees the crime, unless you know wherein the message lies. Society becomes as calm as it is corrupt, when we take the words of a televangelist or talk-show host as truth. Moving swiftly through topic of the day – fentanyl crisis or racial pain – they don’t know any better when speaking of so much worse. Nor can they tell the difference between propaganda and verse. The poet writes not of spring flowers, but of the dread instead. Whom else but a poet (or discarded lover) would sit in the rain and wait for tulips to bloom? Other souls think it too impractical, too illogical, or simply too wet to care. Them who cannot taste the difference between raindrops and a salty tear may never know bona fide honesty until they read about it.
Who can you blame? Are the feelings unjust when a decision is a matter of knowing you must find fault or favour with the ill winds of change? It is never enough to simply rearrange plans or predicaments. It is like making a prediction of all my flaws with my faith as fractured or fragile as it is, or has been. Far easier to see what I haven’t been doing.