This is a rewrite.
The poets poem
Each poet writes between the bind.
Their innuendos for our mind.
They launch them with a tender flair,
With phantom strings that hold them there.
Amongst the flowers of their poem,
Are secret fears that will not comb.
Hidden under shadowed sheath,
Secluded in a secret wreath.
They drain their souls in self embroil,
Weary themselves in sweat and toil.
Hide each gem in self deny,
With colors of a butterfly.
Then hold their breath for one to read,
The vail of message they have seed,
Amongst the offer of their tea.
And pray to God in true you see.
So if you read a poets poem,
Search carefully what they has sown.