"We have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and force: — but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem per se, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem's sake."
---Edgar Allen Poe---
To forget the constellations in
I lie many a night on the roof and
Yet memory serves its purpose.
I think of how in the bigger picture
We are nothing but pixels and
dots... in a map that we have lost.
You in your part of the world in
Your heat and cheap shoes and me,
In my part of chill and broken umbrellas.
To think that someone
Has made us seems like
A absurd idea but
One I never did come up with.
So I stare at the stars some more
And go to sleep,
In a land of my own creation, where
Dreams are like psedo-art paintings
And nightmares like a low budget
And I wake.
Sometimes in a different place.