I know not what of poetry.
If it sounds Latin it’s Greek to me.
Yet pages turned new words learned,
emotionally concerned more is yearned.
Emboldened by fantasy I ward off attacks.
Slivers of truth yet slip through the cracks.
In a masquerade of hither and yon,
a poet’s mask is what I write on.
Sadness lurks beyond a child’s grin.
The truth bleeds hidden within.
All parabolic permutations I can’t define,
calculating the depth of every line.
So I’ll jump up and down, rattle around,
feet in the air and ears to the ground.
I’ll hear the sounds I note before bed,
where arranged tomorrow, unless I’m dead.