True Art

When a writer is true to the artist’s form

It’s not rare to illicit critique and scorn

When a writer divulges unedited prose,

It often lacks beauty like an unscented rose

When a writer holds back words underlying the dream

What is finally unleashed is an inaudible scream

If she edits her piece like her dress before church

it may haunt uninvited, like a predators’ lurch