Meaning hides behind the curtain of words
strung on steel spines laid across windows
open to the view of curiosity seekers
walking the borders of meadows
where secrets are held in shallow graves.
I watch their progress across the land
mined with traps of grammar and rhyme,
their trampling feet raising dust to obscure
whatever truths they might find
should their path be more certain, more sure.
Discoveries are few and far between.
They wander and look everywhere but
where the treasures lie sight unseen.
Makes me wonder why poets write,
what they expect others to glean
from meaning hidden in plain site.
annarino writes 