When poems become just

Numbers to me or, perhaps,

A way to win recognition –

That is when poetry has failed

Me and I should discard the pen.

When lines become a way

To win favour and rhymes

Just pleasantries in my head

Then words will lack power

And potency – then I should

Give up, give in; take a backseat

Ignore the words in my head,

The numbers in my mind and

Die away gently, gracefully:

The blurred beauty of fading flowers.