"Poetry The Stranger"
It snuck up on me like a curious, ghostly visitor
in an old-time horror movie.
Hesitant at first, I approached it with caution.
And as I readied myself to ask “what’s up?”
It said its name was Poetry.
Poetry offered me a gift.
It was not a gift spotted with the Seeing Eye,
Nor a gift felt with the hands.
Yet, if you bit right into it, you could taste sweet pureness…
Or bitterness; whatever taste is yours.
Taste though, of bitterness or pure,
You’ll still find it leaves you wanting more,
With the light crinches and the crunches.
Poetry asked me to take its gift.
To take my thoughts and make myself articulate;
to take my thoughts from head to paper.
Hour after hour went by,
and Poetry’s gift still wasn’t on the line.
But soon, before I knew it,
the pen was moving on its own.
And it smelled just as good as freshly baked pie,
And as good as freshly brewed victory.