Err..so here we go...

Poetics

Remnants
Unable to do justice
to the verse of life.

Rhythm
Wanting the reality
of a haunting, fleeting melody...

As a faint symphony
from distant corners
of a dark room
draped in mahogany.

Real poetry
is unaware of itself,
lacking pride or introspection.

Expressing the trenchant burden
set deep at the core...
It's beauty reminiscent of
the smell of freshly baked bread...