Poetry is bubbles of images,
As faces come and go,
The poets are arrowed by Cupid,
Or God's glorious glow.
The inconsistent mind roams,
As salamanders, nymphs and gnomes,
And the poets release their morbid emotions.
To poet, –poetry is a crazy breezy lady,
Or primrose or garden flowers,
Or a bath from an invisible shower.
All humans are poets and poetess,
And their daily thoughts create structural beds,
In poetry they seek love evoked in lonely shades.