Because we cannot see
Words lying, poetry
Is impossible. Words are so good
At deception, poets, who would
Make you deceived,
Are never, themselves, believed.
The cunning it takes
To sweetly and obviously lie, makes
Poetry, poetry. But how can the poet lie
When words themselves deceive our ear and eye?
How can the poet fool
The frowning teacher in the school?
How can the poet deceive
The prose of life which makes us laugh and grieve?
I’ve been reading my old love’s poetry
For hours. I cannot see
One word meant for me.
I hear words. Not the poet. Not poetry.
This is why my muse seeks fame
Crying loudly hers, and my, name.