I sit and read the HP site
and observe a teardrop's course
Engaged in deepest revelry
and when it dies, remorse.

I listen to the rustle of the rhymes
in swaying Poetrees...
And revel in the sweet caress
of every whispered breeze

The sweetness of a sentence
every stanza, works of art
The rhymes that touch my soul
and lo, the rhythm that beats from heart.

The lullabies so sweet and soft
that gentle me to sleep
The love tributes, as I nod off
while counting them as sheep.

When I read
Someone's literature,
Prose, poetry,
No matter,
I enjoy the read
For the read,
Voice, style
Words, meter.
A combination
Of fact and fiction,
Shared understanding
Through emotion.
That's the art
Of literature:
When writer,
Not autobiographer,
Strikes the nail,
Strums the chord,
Touches
The subconscious
******.
One seldom
Reveals
Hard facts
Of one's life:
Writers give insight
Readers find right.