• Kristiana Roemer


It’s funny that you write a poem hoping to encapsulate some moment, a discovery so great, you feel a pull at your soul to feel the gratification of reaching the destination you were attaining to achieve from the beginning. Aching for the hot rush – but the poem has other plans, every time, it keeps throwing other doors and crossroads into your flow of writing and you keep staring blankly at your goal, while you obviously know you need to follow your craving left at the mercy of the poem.

If you are lucky, then what is born is not what you wished to write or thought to know but something erupting from below the obvious, a recognition, a revelation, a discovery so honest that even if you write the same physical words you had in mind, their meaning has traveled. If you are lucky, then you’ve caught a moment worth “writing for”, yet the moment had before is only ghostly stacked between the lines and curves of letters, phrases, punctuation and words and nobly lives on by having conjured up this poem. But your soul is still aching, your mind latched, a deprivation of the burning sensation of letting it go for it finally to grow and be seen. But you suck up the embryo, dismembered scraps of it spilled into the paragraphs, no more a moment left now than a ghost – the moment itself ultimately lost.


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My reflections are moving in nearer as I stand here in my house of mirrors. Some are chipped, some need dusting. Some are polished to a shine, crystal-clear. Some are obvious, some are deceiving. But