Have you seen this poem?

searching
I am searching
for a poem

reaching

I've been reaching

to find it

here and there

high and low

all the usual places

poems tend to go

I thought

yes, I thought I saw it yesterday

in the sky

the very blue sky

above my head

with whitest clouds

clearest view

of nostalgia

almost ... you

yes, I thought

I found my poem

as I ought

but it was just a sky

with rambling memories

in a passing cloud

gone by

I wondered
if it just might be
my poem
in this morning's rain
that fell
drop by drop on me
caressing my skin
so cold
and harshly
briskly
wakening me
but no
only rain
only pain
no poems
hidden here

I fancied a look

in the mirror

and in pictures I took

was this

some existential crisis?

was I to seize

some grand truth

about myself?

To learn some

horrid fault

I hid

on some

subconscious shelf?

Nope

It wasn't all me, me ,me

as we like to believe

not this poem

not this time

not that I know it well

for it has buried itself

not easy to find

a poem

calls to me

whispers on my pillow

when I wake

these words

taunt and beckon me

to be written

to be felt

'Come now'

they tease

'Just a taste'

I think

my shadow knows

but why

would she tell me?

we're actually

not

the best

of friends

we argue

over nonsense!

silly things,

like books ...

to read from

the beginning

or

skip to the end?

Is my life

to be the poem then?

A jumble

of unpenned words?

Some rhyme

some stick together

in incoherent noise

that sickens

and disturbs

I am the cacophony

of my mind's

own feeble company

screams of madness

rays of sadness

glimpses of sunshine

in-between the gloom

I am a ride

that will soon

be over and done

A game,

however well

or badly played

that will soon be

by one

or the other won ...

how arrogant and silly of me

I still dare think this poem

for which I search

must be

my own soliloquy!

when my child cries

and I rush to kiss

and wipe their eyes

is that the poem?

or when one

picks me

flowers in the yard

just for fun

is that the poem?

when my children

run to hug or kiss me

just because

of such innocent love

as children give

and I despise myself

for my despair

and thank God

for each day I live

is that the poem?

is that the poem?

when I

pull covers over my face

and cry for hours

for the pain

that no time

can erase

is that the poem

for which I grope?

what sort

of great words are these?

words

that give no hope?

so, then

I will

keep searching

always be reaching

mending as I go

peeking beneath the surface

following rainbows

calling in the night

and seeking corners in the light

for a poem

the poem

the one that eludes me

that bitter sweet pill confounding me

words that will reveal themselves

perhaps to me

perhaps to someone else