The Dilettante
To no one in particular,
but everyone out loud
What you portend as Poetry,
should never make you proud
The words are so revealing,
of what’s not inside your head
Your heart lies soundly sleeping,
there forever in your bed
The words you do disservice,
as the rhyme you then defame
The couplets maimed and slaughtered,
with free verse then just the same
With your voice not flat or tinny,
maybe you should try to sing
Because verse as you now write it
—is a bee that cannot sting
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
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