The Lie

I used to believe Poetry was Thee, Thy and Thou,
The sort of thing you find under a woman’s bonnet,
A thing of class distinguishing low rung from highbrow
In the romantic seduction of spring time sonnet,
Like the melodic undertones of the villanelle,
The haunting repetition of stoic sestina,
In the way that quatrain can weave magical spell,
Meant to woo and coo reserved Spanish senorita,
Flowing like liquid dripping in syrupy praises,
Sweet nothings whispered in a lover’s ear at bed time,
A rehearsed litany of fancy flowery phrases,
Dealing in matters without reason like love and rhyme,
But as the years passed I realized this wasn’t true
Making a lie of every poem I wrote for you

T J Therien


7 thoughts on “The Lie”

    1. thank you very much Redgladiola, I agree that poetry should feel true, better yet, written straight from the heart 🙂

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