To me, for mankind there are few greater creations

The way we can take words and artfully arrange them

Lay them out upon a page

Paint a mental picture that could rival a Monet

Relate a deeper meaning

Or merely draw the eye along by routes, obscure and scenic

Some fiendish, as I and Baudelaire

Looking through the cracks for beauty in despair

Often careless and quite callous

The sacred art of poetry is one of love and malice