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

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