Through the Poet’s Forest

I used a plow and I buried my seeds,

Made sure to remove all decay.

At night I slept, and after a few days

I awoke to a forest of poetry.

I wondered which words tasted sweet?

Fruit of the mind I did create.

So I began plucking before their ripe day,

But was it wise to pluck so free?

I’d grown those words under false time

And spoke sweetness that wasn't mine.

I watered them and dusted their leaves,

Swatted gnats and pulled their weeds,

And on their brown bark, poems I did read,

Flowing with language overly keen.

But I found that the poetry was dry,

Bitter and smelling of lies,

So I cursed what I’d taken with ease

And chose to take my tools and leave.

Upon a new plot I dropped my seeds,

And dreamt once again

The poet’s forest of green.