On Poetry
On Poetry
A soft summer shower washes my face,
And the sun’s light presents a rainbow’s path
Within this preponderance of time and space;
I am rejuvenated by the bath.
I had grown lazy in my endeavours
And thought a wave of the hand was required
To produce as if one superior
And natural talent was all I needed.
And so my art’s creative form dwindled;
I felt I did not have to work at it.
It took on an aura of arrogance
That no one appreciated or wanted.
One well-written poem excels many
which are lauded at the altar of poetry.
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