They say that poetry doesn’t sell.

But then is poetry ever on sale?
Is poetry a commodity?
Is happiness on sale?
Is hope on sale? Is love on sale?

A poem could be a chunk of reality. Ramblings of a broken heart. A slice of humour. A beacon of light.

In the darkest of times, I have found poems that in a few words, beam rays of sunshine. That soothe unknown aches and pains. That hold my hand and pull me up. Bit by bit.

I may remain the proverbial ‘poor’ poet with large empty pockets. But poetry enriches me.

It casts a spell.  
So what if poetry doesn’t sell?