Poetry

I once thought poetry
to be a cop-out,
succumbing to
my crippled attention-span;
a pastime for women
with flowers on the brain.
But, the words come
of their own accord.
My hands, compulsive,
carve off excess.
I do not build stories.
I sculpt poems,
“an art of subtraction”,
compelled to disinter
distilled truths
in a muddied world.