Writer Poem by John Shea

like a snake in the grass
we enter into the glass covered path
Will recover or falter
Do I have class..alas
Round stones make me slither aside
Muddy water to rape my pride
Schooled like a scholar
I falter..as I realize at the altar
Lust is just a test
Not lonely...not sex
Just life with much to confess.
Love, the serpent of lore
Intertwines with our body and mind
Then we walk the line
Only to find
There is more.
Love can have fangs
Be elusive and unkind
Enlightening and soothing
Boring then moving
Blessed be the writers of lovers
Poets for real
Or just undercover.