Truths and Lies
He used to read a lot, but now he lives
And writes. The smallest, ordinary things
Can spill out sonnets on the page. Each gives
Him evidence that he’s a poet, sings
The proof with newest melody and signs.
He doesn’t need a prophet now to tell
Him who he is or how to act. The lines
That pour out, gushing, when he primes the well
With just the littlest items from his days
Speak like Zoroaster of creation.
The thousands of his poems are a blaze
Of sublimating, like love creation.
..Or sometimes they are just prolific waste
….Like diamond jewellery cheaply pressed from paste.