Poetry and lies.

The dance and music of nature.
The damp memory of a spring drizzle
awakening the breath of new life.
So much promise, and hope that can lift away
so much construct and angst.
Hypnotized to peace.

One frog to another, "fuck me",or "get away, far away"
sounds so much the same.
The rot of fall limbs that succumbed to autumn bluster.
And feces frozen through winter, now decaying.
hastened by new rain.
How poetry transforms stench.

And i do like it. It is true. I side with poets.
I believe in their desire to believe.

But even so, as

One set of sensory overload is replaced by another.

Which is truer, which is more real?

The poet in me sides with nature,

the reality
of what must be left behind,
and what must be dealt with says another.