The Writers' Circle

Some call poetry an outlet of grief,
So let it flow.
Let the tumultuous waves ricochet  
Off the walls and corrode away the land.

For poets are merely mankind's minds,
Parading malingering messages for the 
Mass of man.

Let them be exuberant,
Elude to embedded imagery-
Where thoughts life,
Consciousness rests.

Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
No, those days have passed.

Rather hear a dog bark at a crow 
Than a man swear he loves me?
Wise words,
Wise, watery, weak.

Poetry can not change nature.
Poetry can not stop wars.
But poetry can heal
Wailing wounds weaponry wars.

While poetry sleeps against the shore,
Sorrow subsides.