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RORSCHACH

As if my pen exploded there, or worse,
I splattered my few words upon the page:
Empty words in hideous blank verse, 
Words written not in artifice, but rage.

Yet critics found within it more than rhyme,
Ascribed to me ideas that weren�t my thoughts
Found meaning that was never my design,
Like madmen finding pictures in ink blots.

A face, a bat a butterfly, a flower,
Existing nowhere but the viewer's head:
Do poets create poems through their own power?  
Or is poetry defined by being read?

For now I�ll furnish tone, and rhyme, and meter
And leave metaphor and meaning to the reader.