Some call poetry the language of Love,
And a poet is one sweet mistress,
But I call it the language of Heart,
Of Mind, and Soul, and Distress.

It is not Love that drives a writer,
But the fear of Loss and Strife,
And with these bittersweet words I say,
One might fear a poet's life.

In the darkest depths of unimagined,
The imagined rises true,
And Love somehow, against all odds,
Strikes out of the blue.