The poet’s soul is like no other;
‘Tis sister to the stars and brother
To faery folk, each mystic creature
And goddess girls who’ll never feature
Or figure in most mortal’s thinking;
(I’ve seen them mock while slyly winking.)
The poet’s soul it senses beauty
And deems it her most solemn duty
To paint a picture on her pages,
With words of wisdom: just like sages!
Yet not pretentious, paltry preaching;
With rhyme, she’s teasing, never teaching!
The poet’s soul is swathed in sorrow.
For beauty, to be born tomorrow
Will not be held or owned by many;
She weeps and wonders if there’s any
Who’ll wake when world is filled with gladness
And sun has set on all this sadness.
The poet’s soul is slowly dying;
It’s drained of blood and tears from trying
(With desperation’s deep desire
And heaven’s true immortal fire)
To touch the hearts: stone cold and frozen;
O how she wished she’d not been chosen!