Poetry

Not haughty thoughts
that confounds the muse
nor ego trips
for the inspired plume:



It's the weeping willow
shedding the blues.....
milk of the honey comb
for a tortured soul.

I'ts a hard shelled nut
with tasty meed
that must be cracked
to get the meat.

That's what poetry
means to me.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©