I am no poet; wordsmiths are a different kind
of beings: alien to my pen of blue ink; of crumbling tapestries
they weave and conjure blue skies from the terrors deep down
where their unconcerned clouds no longer linger.
I am no poet; writers write their blue truths:
blue moons and pink pigs crashing, crackling,
roasting to feed the alien men, and beating heart
of a Lady’s pen.
I am no poet; never saw his Skylark soaring in his sky;
never bought her beach bird’s obsession: food, food,
her Sandpiper’s ceaseless search for food, no pathos felt
for nature’s deep-rooted drive to survive.
I am no poet; I fake, I take His words
mixed and unmatched with Hers,
to simmer slowly a tepid truth
served crumb-less, cold, meatless, untold – a bowl for fools.
