Lady Poetry

by Czechlister

When I first met her
My words were easy lies.
I nimbly shook her hand
Though my own were tied.
Then silky ribbons she unwound,
And my wrists were unbound.

Now I speak with my inside voice
From somewhere near my heart.
Metaphor is my crutch of choice
But she sees through my art.

In my words a seed of truth
Tentatively begins to grow.
Deep within it puts out roots,
Though perhaps it does not show.

For whoever speaks with her,
Must learn to walk her path.
Once on the path of Poetry
There is no turning back.

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