A poet is the face of every poem,
And words reflect the surface on the page.
We’re missing all the stuff of life it comes from;
The words are masks the poet wears on stage.
Disguises, good or bad, of hearts so aching
And minds that pray the next word is a cure.
When glass facades grow thin enough for breaking,
I promise you the pieces hide still more.
From thoughts so pure or lifetimes interrupted,
We read the lines of laughter and of tears.
Some ramble on while others end abruptly,
And who are we to judge what work appears?
Of all our hellish hats and worried ways,
The mirror of our poetry is safe!
A poet’s poem, a Sonnet for day 4 of NaPoWriMo!