Behind Closed Doors

There is no such thing
as a poem
completed.
There is no such thing
as a dead poem, a finished poem,
a poem that ends when
the book closes.
They don't end,
they get embedded in the now
and the present,
wrapped up and beautiful
ready to be gifted again
and reborn.
There is no such thing
as a poem that doesn't breathe
and morph into
what becomes of everything.
Poetry is a color
that has no set pigment
that changes as dramatically as
the sky at sunset.
Poetry threads into
everything we do.
It latches on to
the empty places in our hearts
and the fuller ones, too.
It whispers to us
of the dreams we wish we had,
of the dreams we do have.
It tugs at those parts of us
that want to embellish the world
with our stories.
A poem dies when you close the book
much like a room disappears when you turn out
the light.
It is still there.
It is still living.
It is still a memory
we can not forget.
It is the secret, the proclamation, the underlying desire
That is put into words
That aren't words.
They are magic.
Immortal.
Unfinished.
Alive.

Jenna Mosier