To what end does poetry lead
Waypoints on the map
Do they take one to places desired
Or to small feathers in one's cap
Perhaps it goes nowhere
A mere biographical aside
Footnote from university years
A hobby lost under pride
Or maybe it's a small boulder
Carried or rolled up the hill
Sisyphus may smile
But the poet gets a chill
The words wont to fill a book
Unless paired with other groups
And so who do these snacks really feed
Beyond fellow artist troupes
And so suffer they must self-referentially
An art stuck in its gravity well
No magic might save this luckless lit
An herbal sage without spell
Yet rhymes may etch
Into some minds' mists
Granting authors new life
So long as image persists
Roman Ryan 