that plagues his waking and dead hours
the poet clings to what he's burned in his heart
be it ancient or recent, always
it is Love.
What he harbours in his sighs
he fashions prose and rhyme
to ease his suffering.
What poison that dulls his heart
he savours the sweetness.
The poet cherishes his own weakness
thinking his fragility beautiful
not realizing his foolishness is but
a plaything; breakable.
Most of all, replaceable.
Bearing welts on his soul
like a gladiator his battle scars,
the poet is never aware.
He has no sword, or spear
he is not in a war. Only a victim of slavery.
The poet think he breathes flowers
cries diamonds and sings like angels
when really all he does is bleed.
All the worse, all the better for him
for agony and misery are his mistresses.
You are a shell of a man.
Within you lies Heaven for you're empty and ungraspable.