Romancing the poet
Where is the romance in a poet who does not feel?
Does he dream, perchance to sleep?
Or does he lay awake all through the night;
round and round,
or the like?
Words worthy of…
a rub… in his tub
Aye! There it is!
While I wait for a love letter from the heart
to ignite my passions,
All that arrives is a not-so-pleasurable ‘B’.
There’s a bee in his sonnet.
A sting in the immaculately coiffeured bee hive styling;
honeycombed ejaculate bursting forth
from his rod of ink;
leaving his mark like skunk stink –
scents to sense his ability for nonsensibility.
Starts from the heart then, starts from his art;
backtracks to the flat-packed shelter of his wit; so it seems.
Where is the romance in a poet who runs from his dreams?