Poetry needs no mind as such
to say anything new; but for a lone bird
flying in rhyme among the clouds,
set to scale higher and higher,
a cup of espresso ready in hand,
steaming in meter, with a rush
of gut feeling set in pulse or impulse,
to call a spade a spade, and as well
something unsaid, right and wrong.
All said and done about the muse,
Poetry needs no mind as such.