Art is inevitable and always up in your face,

Paint smacks a canvas and splatters in directions.

Rhythm is precision and requires optimum space,

While poetry my dear is written throughout various perceptions.

 

There are the poets and the audience

Or the audience and the poets

There are words and expedience,

Flashy language is for stoics.

 

Then we have the sentimental theme,

That is supposed to mean something—

Sure… it makes sense it was just a real bore

Real poetry injects a bird and allows it to soar.

 

It should relate to every being through one level of depth or more,

Create emotion and empathy chewing stomachs till their sore. 

Objects come alive and exponentially mean something to explore,

An allegory that represents something greater than what it was before.

 

Between the lines, it should look like a long blank space, 

Those eyes do not need to read a page of black letters in a trace.

Poetry comes through all forms and delightful tastes—

It is perfect through the poet’s lips and never lacks to waste.

 

There is a balance and a peace that dines on the audience,

Once the true meaning comes across a lightweight bridge. 

There is passion and a faith of a beautiful obedience, 

And yes there is fire that leaves behind a singe.

 

Ice burns and ice cools—

And poetry practices both.

 

Freezing a thought and releasing it far away

Like snowflakes that come and go in a season.

Only a poet could see a snowflake in the summer day

And a sunflower blooming in the winter’s treason.

 

It is a wave of words adorned with bold meanings—

A truth that is exploited by gradual teachings

Only a real poet knows they never stop learning

Because their fingers and mind drive their wild yearnings.

 

Imagination is their best friend and so it is mine,

However, the poet and the audience is an intellectual of the mind

Molding their perceptions to release strictly woven lines—  

Into a world full of poets whom are wonderful and all lushly divine.