I, poet, may write of love

and in that moment feel

a meaning clear:

yet my soul knows love

my hand will never pen

 

You, reader, read that word

and think to know my mind  

 

              I say you cannot know the love

my heart placed behind that word, only

your sense of the love you thought you saw

 

The poet can never truly speak

and have his reader know

his soul's pain, his heart's love.

Each word you read is ever stolen

from my page