"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.