Fifty Seven

I am poetry.

Glassy surfaced,
prettily decked in rhyme,
occasionally tangential,
otherwise, free verse however jagged
in flow.

I hide,
in an ocean of words,
my meaning –
obscured by the million eyes that
look close, skim through,
glance at, glassy-eyed,
or even read between the lines.

Maybe
i’m just a rant.
Maybe
i am the answer to the purpose of life.

I have the cheek to say
that i am Art,
i am abstract,
i chronicle your truth – not mine,
i will bestow upon you, the privilege of intellect,
there’s more to me than what meets your eye.

I tease you,
gratify you,
and just when you think you’ve figured me out,
you realize,
i’m a million right answers.
I’m anybody’s guess.

Honestly,
I’ve always been my maker’s secret.
I’m full of literary devices,
and defenses,
With that deliberate, misplaced comma,
that begs you, to reread, what you think you read.

I’ve always been my maker’s secret –
one that is not meant to be found out.

And funnily,
that joke is on me.