A forgetful old man of Iraq,
wrote poetry books by the stack.
His memory was such
that sometimes he would forget he was writing poetry entirely and, instead write in a prose form that was both beautiful and lyrical. It flowed from his pen like spring water coming from the depths of the Earth to a moonlit surface, sparkles occurring randomly across the surface of the pool. Sometimes his work would inspire. Other times, the same text would anger, horrify, sadden or bolster the reader. But, then he would realize that prose was not his love. It was poetry. He was a poet.
And, then he’d get right back on track.