Being

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. 

.