Poetry is a curious thing;it has a power we cannot see
but only feel... perhaps, not even that;
just sense, instinctively.
The words a poet uses, and the order in which they appear,
can mean... all things, to all people;
you read in them what you desire.

Perhaps, you can see love, or longing; tears, or laughter...
hope or fear;
some star-crossed tryst... some misty dream; it is a thing all poets share.
There are so many variations; weaving rhyme in different styles;
a golden world, so full of promise... gentle smiles; or wistful sighs?

Do you want to soar above the mountains in the endless blue?
Do you want to wander mist-wreathed lands, where, still...
the Moonflowers grow?
Do you want a tale of unrequited love, soft drenched in tears;
half-lost, but half-remembered through the shadows of
long drifting years?

Or, would you rather craft a subtle, perfect Sonnet for your sweet?
the quatrains merging elegant... the couplets rhyming, fair and neat.
A work of such sweet elegance... your lover's heart is in your hand;
these things are all here to be found; in this poetic promised land.

This is where true magic lies, within us all... no more... no less;
for, deep down... we are all Romantics; we all seek the soft caress
of fantasy...
some sweet Idyll of tragic love, now lost in time;
these whispered dreams of captive hearts all bound in gently flowing rhyme.