Monday, August 13, 2012

Of poets

No rhymes, no verses.
I could write in words
plain and simple.
In words that
don't hide in themselves
any unseen meanings.

I could still call it poetry, perhaps.
Even without the cloaks of metaphors
unfurling in the blizzard of feelings.
All expressions would lay bare
and letters would shiver naked
on pages white as a stark bulb.
And the words they formed
would define, not allude.

Yes, sure I could do that.
Like you say,
what is the need for
layers upon layers
of unnecessary veils?

But then I could nothing deny.
And behind the duality of
undecipherable meaning
I could not hide, could I?