They say a poem is the way the heart sings.
They tell of songs sung with sweet words.
They preach of love divine, and hero’s valor.
Yet, as they bring the poems for all to see and hear, it is chained and bounded.
They claim it is for appeal, but as you listen to its words, they are dull and lifeless.
When one’s heart rises to oppose, it is shunned and disgraced by them.
No matter their efforts, they cannot truly contain the essence of poetry.
The essence of one’s heart.
The heart is without shape or form, without chains or binds, nor gags, nor twisted words.
It is the truth, and none can conceal it.
None can alter it.
None, but the heart itself.
Poetry is the way the heart sings, using sweet words to preach of love’s mythical strength, the heart’s true existence.
Magnificence pours from their chambers when unleashed, beauty and excellence ringing through the air.
The lion is not judged by the method of his roar, but the pride he carries with it.
