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.