The Poet

They say poets are sad and nearly miserable

Yet most find them elusive and quite desirable

A poet is a writer a master of creation

A skillful being behind the words of temptation

Their careful art is tainted with emotion

The flow from unavailable fingers  cursed by devotion

Arcane sensations that remain vocal and vain

The Doltish expectation to prevail as humanly sane

The noble lords hath named you passionate and crude

So from the produce of thy work you possess succulent brain food

An imbecile to the weight of love, anger and hate

Wiser than the years cowardly fit to translate

As deep as the pores of the descending ocean

As crafty as the young in their opening motion

Why would they dare to describe an entity so fair

Poets are the people who are smitten with seasons of intense care


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