This world is not a poem. It isn't, I tell ya now without a doubt in my mind. How do I know this fact, this indisputable fact?
This world is not a poem, because I am a poem, and I ain't the world. I'm just a man poem.
Five is the number each of my limbs ends with. Together I have 40 digits to handle the world I step in. My thinning hair is fine thank you. My green-hazel brown eyes are night blind and overly sensitive to the sun. My slender fingers tickle the ivories and ebonies quite well. I embrace the violin gently, too. The hair on my arms and legs and chest cause some distress in a country of smooth skinned people. But I like my hair - all of it. I lie. I don't like the hair on my chin and cheeks. Shaving is a morning ritual done in resignation with a sigh and a Gillete Mach3 Razor. Each and every part of my body my mind my soul fit together like the stanzas and verses of a magnificent poem. As do yours.
And that is why the world is not a poem.
The world is an infinite book of poems. I am merely one beautifully masculine poem residing therein. And you? What kind of poem are you?