Poem

May be a poem is not worth tonight
For poems are self-obsessed shadows;
What matters tonight is a tiny speck of light
That reignites the stage for another show.

Let the poem elude me for one more time
For poems are mysterious in their folds
Trapped souls in nearby meanings; each line
Represents the fade-outs as curtains fall.

So let the lovers rekindle their love
Not in a poem, but in themselves
For poems are only misfired shells
And to be honest, quite useless.