• A poem is a strange, wry thing,
    Which shifts and often bends,
    To the whims and fancies,
    Of a quivering, feathered pen.

    They say a poet's blood is ink,
    And so surely mine must be,
    Darker than an ocean,
    And blacker than a sea.

    A poem is a piece of Heaven,
    That didn't quite fit in,
    For irreverence is mocked above,
    And relished of a sin.

    Ah, sweet poetry! Melodious sounds!

    Even when left to dry unbound.

    Would that words a greater meaning had,
    When spoken in the modern age,
    But alas, a poet resigns themselves,
    To the mercy of an ink-dabbed quill and blank page.

    A poem is a pretty thing,
    Or perhaps it's quite grotesque,
    Perception is a fairer guise,
    Of judgement, so bereft.

    Mayhap there is another way,
    To speak in prose so quaint,
    But blunt words are the daggers,
    Of any poetic, mercenaric fate.

    A poem is emotion,
    A thought buried deep inside,
    A philosphy deeper than an ocean,
    And more random than the sky.

    Poetry may fade,
    As ink dries and cracks away,
    But the words, so oft spoken,
    Shall always yet remain.