I, poet, may write of love
and in that moment feel
a meaning clear:
yet my soul knows love
my hand will never pen
You, reader, read that word
and think to know my mind
I say you cannot know the love
my heart placed behind that word, only
your sense of the love you thought you saw
The poet can never truly speak
and have his reader know
his soul’s pain, his heart’s love.
Each word you read is ever stolen
from my page
