The only reason I can see
To down the spoon of sweet honey
Is to calm the ache of a sore throat,
To breach the litterglubble moat.

I'd rather come to write a tale
Of Puss in Boots or rogues in jail.
The poisoned downed the die are cast,
Grandeurable stories from the past.

For poetry is much too real,
And the stings and aches of life you feel
As children trip and fall and bleed,
As lovely gardens go to seed.

As shelved toys sit, gathering dust,
As teachers come to say, "You Must."
As fallen apples drop to ground.
As worms squirm through the mushy mound,

You start to see a reddish stain,
You start to note the growing pain
As, like dwarfs, you mine too deep
Into secrets you're meant to keep.

And for each plated path you take
Another dream you must forsake
To follow through the gilded road
And on it bear another load.

You start to make the old things new,
And blows of life beat down on you
Much stronger now you see the truth
That I am meefth and you are youfth.

Our stories take us from this life,
Remove us from our painful strife,
Whereas poetry, you see
Is just a spoon of thick honey.