A poem is just nothing .
but a squinting , also a board of painting .
familiar but sinister , at yore distant .
its a piece of decorative fine grave tent .
anyone knows what is shrouded in
but no descriptive can withhold its deepening .
such everlasting mystery.
if you can tell us the truth poet !!!
poet 's words is painting board to be interpreted.
always at it secret causticity and its shrewd .
the realm it behold is sneering dangling ,
in the poet's ***** not in the word's deepening .
a poem is like a fine grave with silken band .
and it covers what we will never understand ...