Poetry is not a well written text,
It’s a whisper, scream, or laugh from one’s soul.
The smooth entwined words may leave one perplexed.
And it often takes time to reach to the goal.
All one has to do is untangle the vines,
The plain stark branches that twist in the climb,
To perceive the seeds planted ‘tween the lines
Of ripe poems that have grown over time.
The plant of poetry carries a fruit,
A rich mellow heavenly sweet crop,
Which values the whole from leaves to the root
And tastes of a beauty held in each drop.
Thoughts, hearts, and feelings revealed in this gift
Are the divine grapes that braided words lift.
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