I dislike poetry
An overbearing way of wearing thoughts on sleeves or sharing these
Not thought out, a poor lot wrought for lost thoughts run to tongues'
weak spots
Weak spots indeed -- though speech be easy, what we see clearly
Is as sand through a sieve, leaving a dirt breeze to please our notions
Of what looked a rock larger than the oceans
No one else can be bound by our oaths and devotions
As no one understands from grit grammar the vast land of our emotions

I denounce poetry
It shares no semblance of its purpose, no rememb'rance of its worth
Conceived to convey, yet carried away however it may be
Maybe one way, rather drawn sideways from its original foray
Pah! I know what I say as I know where I stand, but language wants to
insist
Instead, it leaves its gems in interperetation: seek, not understand
And thus ends the origin, and formed anew by the hand
Of the eye that was reading, a new altar stands
Honoring the new vision of the old thinking's brand

I honor now our poetry
I value every word I've spent
It is as we will make it be
What was is now irrelevant
The weight we give to golden words
Is weight, in fact, of Tipharet
The razor's edge on verbal swords
Will form Gevurah's epithet
Throughout interpretation's course
The words are mine -- the meaning yours

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Sarapin, in the year 349 AF.