Poets paint their art with words
Their brush, a mighty sword
With innuendo here and there
They strike familiar chords.

With words absurd, their meaning blurred
They seduce a fleeting thought
But never assume it’s their personal gloom
For often it is not.

The pain and joy they oft employ
To render their reason to rhyme
Are tainted by the readers’ eye
Unequipped with a poet’s mind.

So when you read a poet’s words
With toil so well defined
That a miner, with a lifeless bird
Is planted in your mind.
It may well be reality
Just not of their own kind.

© 2007 Shirley Allard