She found a old notebook

Full with letters, dazzling to look

At the baffled verses who sighed

Resisted the most overwhelming stride

“How wonderful, if telling that I may?

There are no words to say

How simple poems can make my day

Fly with no attention to pay”

I chuckled, dizzier than ears

That’d spinned around for years

But again her mouth talked

Above the floor she walked

“What is this? How do you

Possibly so softly get through?”

Tricky question that she’d made

Tricky will I had to aid

“They call it poetry” – I began

“But that’s all their plan

Because of not being able to define

An art so beautiful, so fine

They must put it in dictionary

And ignore the touch of the fairy

But it’s so much more

As it’s easy to adore

It’s an explosion of feelings

With no time for dealings

It’s an emotion confusion

It’s to pretend an illusion

And never get to a conclusion”

She eyed like perfect glass

No failures, more natural than grass

Then, landed from a shooting star

Was the “Poet, what you really are”