GONE GONE

What I meant to write

the epic poem of my soul

the perfect words of faith, devotion

and iconoclastic revelry

are lost forever somewhere between 45th and 48th Streets.

The words kept ringing between my ears

echoing off the walls of my cavernous skull

informing me that this was the one

the masterwork

the micro opus

the poem that was going to get me the big bucks

the words were singing to me

softly, until

like all things do

they faded away.

Perhaps they were not meant to be

perhaps the poem was before its time

would have made cities crumble if unleashed too soon

perhaps the millions it would have earned me

would have made me a worse poet

less able to record your lives and fortunes for you.

Perhaps 'if it's important enough, it'll come back to me.'

I hope so.

Because I know

that epic poem

these perfect words of faith, devotion

and iconoclastic revelry

are the ones that got away

and nothing I ever find will be half as good.