They distort words to make a rhyme
or build their own personal fantasy, the one they could never
pull off in real life,
they hide behind poetic license and false sophistication,
the more obscure the better,
snooty poetry journals go for that, those with less
circulation than the number of people in this cafe
late at night.
The lies roll out in green ink at this very moment,
she's not in a cafe but a rolling hillside lush with pine,
trolls hidden behind lichen coated boulders,
mountain bikers festooned in flowing cloaks of gold.
Poets are not to be trusted, their truth can never be
verified, their minds do not follow a straight path,
they are difficult to understand, play music late
at night through open windows and murmur
to themselves.
Follow them at your own risk,
you may fall in love.
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