Half-truths

Line after line that mock the old art,
Thrusting, ripping, and tearing apart,
Beautiful words that flow with such ease,
Sweet, savored phrases that come from the heart.

Word after word appears only a tease,
Defiling meanings, shown only to please,
Not written with love, they pour down the page,
Stifle the poet and drip with disease.

Letters, oh letters, from such an old age,
Gracing the poet, transform him to sage,
Yet meaning so less when they lack proper feel,
They condemn his actions, becoming his cage.

This poet has learned not to write, but to kneel,
Received in the bosom of only things real.