The souls of poets are sublime,
Though they seem sentimental.
Some say they’re sad, but the like the gods
They’re silent, still and gentle.
The thoughts of poets, when conveyed
Can cause a heart to flutter.
Read from a page, they sound like words
A human could not utter.
The pens of poets, when they’re primed
Can pulverise a planet.
Their ink can heal or break a bone,
Or melt a heart of granite.
The lives of poets; they are filled
With joy and jubilation.
Their words are wove on sacred wings
Of angel aviation.
The wives of poets sometimes grieve,
Like widows in their towers,
When poet’s mind is merged with muse
For many moonlit hours.
The lives of poets, short or long;
It doesn’t really matter.
Their breathed out beauty, it will grow
From single seed they scatter.