poets lie,
they fib in the verses
give names to
absence
.
and talk of grief
and smiles
in neighboring
lines
.
paint colourless
pictures and turn
blindness to
such light
.
yet ruffle old
comfort
and break
confines
.
what might be or
might there be
a reason to the being
of poetry
.
structured chaos
and the poet’s
thoughtful
asymmetry?
.
ramblings of a
disconcerted heart
or a ballad of time?
.
maybe just a tumble
of words
that couldn’t help
but rhyme.
.
