Author Information
I. O. U.
The exaction
of a perfectly-pinned
rhyme
evokes
simplistic reactions
in all,
in awe
of song,
of mystic chimes,
resonating
lines.
Climb
rhythmic vines
into metaphorical foliage
and you will find
a poem
lies,
says half as much
as what
it hides.
Stanzas
stay skin-deep,
believe me.
Profound
is found
in subjectivity.
Deceive me,
lover of muse.
I know the ruse
too well.
Limited
minds
try to redefine
and scramble
inferences
to parallels
and differences,
disguised
as clever rambles.
My friends,
my greater
scholars:
Our words
are only
lonely blurbs
of reverse
worth:
I owe you half a dollar.
