"at the touch of love," says he,
"each man becomes a poet."
but some men rise above.
where, then, lies
the final line
between poetry as we know it
and the man whose heart
has been victimized by cupid's bow?
and where do we draw the line
between what we feel
and what we know?
is there a line,
whether blurred or fine?
perhaps. for though the words that leave my pen
can tell the who and why and when,
poetry is the art
of touching a heart and then
portraying it in sounds or rhymes or letters.
but love is still better-
for love is the music that poetry speaks.
love is the fire where we warm our shiv'ring feet.
she's the song the birds sing
every morning.
love is the reason behind a poet's pen-
love lost, love found, love forbidden.
perhaps the great philosopher
was on to something true:
you are the lines of poetry
when love touches you.