Poetry There are times when I despair of some poetry written, nice words knitted together for the sake of sounding pleasant the truth of life is made into a Hollywood romance, beautiful and we cry, misspent, sentimental tears over the irrelevant. My almond tree looks spindly like an oversized spiders web, so ugly in its bareness that hadn't it been for love I would have averted my gaze from this grimness called a tree. But I also know, say, a month from now it will be covered in pink flowers which it strews on the path I walk. There are times when I hate to hear about red roses, because the next sentence will be trivial, like bleakness should not be a part of life.