I would be pleased to know him  

If his words were true. 

I doubt his images.  

Does he think about me in those secondhand thoughts?   

He speaks of love in his sonnets. 

Am I his greatest verse,  

 His sole muse, 

A reason for deceit? 

In his faulty poetry, he is verse when I want prose.   

Always rhyming without substance. 

He is a cursed poet 

With a penchant for lies 

Flicking through the pages, 

 I find we are at odds. 

He believes in form  

I want content.  

His poetry has no meaning 

Neither does the man. 

Is he realistic imagist or romantic illusionist?   

He can’t make up his mind, well, neither can I.   

Another failed poet tossed aside.