My poetry is only so much trash
Except where it connects at last to you.
If I burnt the page and left the ash
There would be nothing lost except a few
Moments when you saw yourself in there,
And smiled to see my love expressed in print.
There is no art, no purpose save to share
That love with you. Its virtue's in the hint
It gave of my intention, not the words,
Which I so valued when I wrote them down.
They are but scattered unadorned potsherds
Whose only meaning is to say a town
Once rested here. Their only good is how
They told you that I loved, and that's done now.
No comments:
Post a Comment