What woes a poet bear is his and his alone.
No other in his world ever breaches his trust
that he may put words from his soul to the air
where they sublimate.
Trysts with muses may occur but the poet will withdraw
when the inevitable solitariness descends.
If it is by accident that this universe is lonely
then it is by nature that the poet sees beauty.
He calls Beauty by names in secret languages
and feeds her his lifeblood.
What is borne then into their private atmosphere
is lost to all spare them.
A wordsmith spits fire. A true poet burns, illuminates his generation
guiding them with voices guiding him, sung throughout his being.
Half-utterances dies on his lips and thwarts him
yet on paper he is a paragon.
No comments:
Post a Comment