The poet’s soul is like no other;
it’s sister to the stars and brother
to fairy 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 a most solemn duty
to prompt the poet put on pages
warmer words than sly old like sages;
they\'re too pretentious, prone to preaching;
the world is tired of tearless teaching!
The poet’s soul is swathed in sorrow.
For beauty, to be born tomorrow,
may not be held or owned by many;
the poet wonders if there’s any
who’ll wake, when world is filled with gladness,
and sun has set on all this sadness.
The soul is sad; the poet’s dying;
has shed the blood and tears from trying
(with desperation’s deep desire
and heaven’s true immortal fire)
to touch the hearts: stone cold and frozen;
a curse, it is, to be the chosen!