Poets dream, they always do
about the impossible made possible
within stanzas and words
they think they weave magic into routine
and move hearts like the mellifluous motion of honey
dense sweet and sticky
connecting one chest to another

Poets claw through the mundane
to find the shimmering light of drama
the stirring stick, with the tumultuous traits

They cannot settle for the norm
they find it deformed
for when that happens
they reach for toxins
to remedy
the normality