Poet

Confined to words.
And their hard shapes —
Curves of black crushed and folded under white-cliffed edges.

At least, a collection of fragmented sounds — crude blue-printed motions,
And at most, a small whisper of greatness,
Or perhaps a cleverly woven image,
An impulsed hint of some radiant-colored feeling.
Yet still all poured into those unchanging molds —
Those cold, indifferent strokes.

And by design some say,
Rhythms abound, yet none to follow,
Hues thrive, yet none to see,
Hearts banging out their loudest selves,
Yet barely heard.