Deceit

There will always be poetry, they say,
Those who have witnessed the immutable power
Of a sunset, or of a green leaf
Tinged with gold in the early days of Autumn.

The speak this truth those who have wept
For lack of words, who stare silently
At pages filled with vain symbols,
Calling this thing rock and this thing tree.

There will always be poetry, they know,
Those who have loved and been loved;
Those who dream of meadows at twilight:
The moon and the lark and the wildflowers forever and ever.

But ever do the poet's words come short or go astray,
Failing in the task with which they are charged:
To capture the poetry around them: in smiles
And sadness, in passion that shakes the heart of the being.

The poet is a liar- mincing half-words
And well intended metaphors to create a half-truth.
But the aura he feels and would transcribe
Is swirling, dancing-rhyming, yet remains,
Inescapable, unreachable, and smiles mockingly
With each penstroke that falls.