I have recently noticed that when reading poetry,
I read the last lines first.
I pondered over this for some time,
with no real sense of what I was looking for,
no inherent conclusion.
Then,
like a brass knuckle shuffle, it hit me in the face.
A moth fluttering, caught in the gaze of my peripherals
clambering from the sight of light
on what must have seemed like
an infinite plane of landscaped glass
held my attention for no real purpose
a misfiring by product of evolution;
a malfunctioning navigational system
electricity the choreographer.
What objective truth was I searching for,
why can't I touch this infinite expanse of water and sand?
I continued, under the superior gaze of a desk lamp,
to read the last lines of each poem
never noticing that the moth had flown away.
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