A poet is only as good as their verse,

Their vision of life, the blessing, the curse.

Is poetry rhythm, or chaos, or rhyme?

A truth that defies the measure of time?

A poet is only as good as the spark,

The voice that ignites in the silence and dark.

If poetry’s meaning is vast as the sky,

The poet must ask: how far will they fly?

For poetry breathes where boundaries cease,

A whisper, a wail, a fragment of peace.

To define it too sharply is to clip its wings

A poet is only as free as they sing.