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As I lie here, bundled in my blankets,
it strikes me that poetry is not hard.
All it takes
Is the lifting
Of sentences from magazines

Cut-and-pasted, stitched together
Like Grandma's socks - that old seamstress
With arthritis in her hands and
Ideas in her Alzheimer's-stricken head.
Computers write poetry too, and they're
Only almost as good.

We call paint splatters art.
Undotted i's are typography.
Who's to say that pixels, randomly scattered,
Won't deceive us into finding meaning
No matter how fruitless the search may be?

Poetry is not hard. Meaning is difficult.
We are existential beings, though we barely
Realise it
In the aftermath of mating,
In the wanderlust of living. We resign ourselves

Without realising it

To lives with beauty, with purpose, with art
Unaware - or perhaps in denial - that all art
Is interpreted. Where you see a vase,
I see the fall and rise of civilisations

Whose sole purpose
Was to produce one beautiful vase.
But they are not the judge.

I am.

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