Why must all our
Potent poets poison
Us with symbolism?
Must riddles rhyme
In perfect time;
A quest for perfect hymnbolism?

Why must water always mean
Immaculate and pure and clean?
And why must red
Compel us so
To hurt and murder, hate a foe?

Does green not mean
A mélange of the passions
Blue and yellow?
Do cold and sunlight mix to yield
A temperate, jealous fellow?

Does Winter have to bring about
The thought of sorrow, death and doubt?
If born here under snowing sky,
Am I now bound to cheat and lie?

Does Spring’s arrival signify
A renaissance of blooming green?
Don’t royal red robes dignify;
Do floods not kill; is water clean?
Is fire orange, or do flames
Have hot blue hearts that flicker truth?
Is it Summer, is it Fall;
Or is it in our childhood games;
What is the symbol of our youth?
Was life the same when we were small?

Why must all our
Potent poets poison
Us with symbolism?
Must riddles rhyme
In perfect time;
A quest for perfect hymnbolism?

Must things mean things and means thing means?
A color wheel of reds and greens,
Of whites and yellows, blacks and blues,
Of oranges and purple hues,
Of water, snow and ice and moons,
Of sunrise, fire, nights and noons,
Of trees and forests, beasts and Man?

A poem is never meant to scan
With unabsorbed and lazy eyes,
But rather meant to catch your mind,
And symbols take you by surprise;
So hints are placed for you to find,
Like truffles searched, like diamonds mined,
So exquisite, and so rare.
Do not think symbols are made,
But rather, with the proper care,
Symbols are, and as they be,
They happen; real as heartfelt prayer.