I’m the poet
Whose running from words
Because meaning
Can never be written,

Now sought
In an empty stanza
Just wishing
Each phrase were true –

That sentence
Only life makes
As intangibly pure
When experienced,

Soon finding these lines
Still escaping,

Barely seized
But sorely expressed.

Such inadequate terms
Are mere guesses,

Weak attempts
Speaking pretty defiance

Against God’s hand
Always pushing
Away from bliss
While it lasts

Since time will shove
Without proof
For belief
Through accurate language

Conveying one’s faith
Chasing moments
Upon this page
Ink relates.

We wait too long
Making gestures,

Rather than feel
Daily losses,

Like matters of joy
Passing quickly
Knowing sacrifice
Inches us close

Near purposeful dreams
Heaven holds,

Beyond simple verse
Failing swiftly,

Seeing art show fear
Behind beauty
By ignoring true death
At its core.

• J. Pigno