Poems
Are self-contained
Within minutes
Felt excessively
As a shy
And idle genius
Of the mind
Which takes
Its time –

This process
Drawing shapes
Around moments
Lacking patterns
In themselves
Containing reasons
For forms
That go
Unseen

When savoring
Endless days
Pursuing gifts
Unnoticed
From corners
Hiding shadows
Like cracks
Between our lies,

Where truths
We cannot speak
Hold meaning
Through their darkness
Keeping proof
Clandestine
Of the God
Who bleeds
These words

While quiet
Does persist
For a daze
Which ushers answers
Down aisles
Walking freedoms
Among what colors
Drift

As the image
Bearing voice
Of their scene
Which keeps repeating
Captured once
Forever
By our bored
And patient
Peace.

– J. Pigno