Poetry points to nothing but itself

Evening all!
Been a busy day so posting this later than planned, hope the weekend is treating you well.
Today I thought I'd share a little quote from E. M. Forster-

 "A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself."
Would you agree? Do poems have to contain any more truth than the emotions they present? Does there need to be a deeper meaning and history behind the words? Or are the words and feelings presented enough? 

Soulseer

He travelled far and journeyed wide,
To find those with a spark inside,
Each one a sacred gift of love,
A soul descended from above.
He found her in a dark despair,
Lost in a world with none to care,
Her bright eyes drowning in her tears,
This slave to weaker people's fears.
He told her that she held a spark,
A light to guide her through the dark,
This power she'd hid for too long,
The chorus to her siren's song.
He took her hand and held it tight,
To save her from the dark of night,
Their bond beyond all love and lust,
A sanctuary of hope and trust.
He watched her dream in silent sleep,
Her mind still gripped by pain so deep,
A broken doll so incomplete.
This fallen angel at his feet.
He took her from the world she knew,
Towards the dawn of life anew,
Another land beyond the stars,
To mend her wings and heal her scars.
He helped her grow across the years,
As slowly they allayed her fears,
Until she spread her wings at last,
And left her old life in the past.

Poetry is the name of the nameless

Morning everyone!
Hope the weekend is treating you well.
Today I thought I'd share a quote by Audre Lorde-
"Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives."
Very true words there, without a doubt.

A Darker Rose

The rose we're told is often red,
the image set deep in our head,
but what if it were pink or blue,
or something of a darker hue?
The rose we're told is often red,
the symbol of true love its said,
but what of pain or baser needs,
the lust for deep and sordid deeds?
The rose we're told is often red,
the petals scattered on the bed,
but what if we could change the track,
and have the petals painted black?