The Poet

The Poet 

I dream in sentences. 

The construction of one word over the next. 

The weighing of the scale as I decide, 

should this word sound like this or is it too quiet?

That’s why I think, Artificial Intelligence could never:

Skip stones across a wood reflected  pond.

Bond over  a campfire and poffertjes in May. 

Walk across the bridge at midnight. 

To be a poet is to watch life, 

And to do so, 

You must first actually be alive. 

xx. Rae Iolene

14 April 2026