I always knew poetry
Was sentimentality
Which only the dearest hearts expressed.
Philosophy is cold,
But not the heart that is distressed.
It’s not that poetry sings,
Though sentiment is close to song;
Poetry sings the heart when the heart knows the world is wrong.
“But the world is not wrong,” she said.
“Is the cloud that covers the sun a lie?
The world is not wrong.” And even as my poetry sang,
Philosophy coldly told me why.
