There stands the such as which I’d like to know

Words come in myriads yet breathe no meaning

Akin to the miner that digs

With only majors for leagues

Finger clicking good at random until winter is well come


I relish love this art though it is not my type

For whatever is touched is lead to become gold

And were this poetry

About ever such poem

One might expect some charm and be disappointed


The pen is mightier than the ink, for the word is but a page in the book of thoughts.