The mystic faith in poetry is found
As words proceed in processes unknown
The metaphors we’ve planted in the ground
As seeds that by the mystic winds are sown
The ground itself is only faith in truth
The truth of time that waits for time to pass
At times semantics seem, at best, uncouth
Like similes that kick the poet’s ass
If beauty lives, that means it also dies
The death of beauty happens every day
True mystic poetry is filled with lies
And only faith reveals its narrow way
The needle’s eye provides the mystic’s sight
It may not be a poem, but it might!
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