What is it
that a poet needs?
Prestige, merit
or some other reward.
What is it his soul heeds?
To compete with the best:
Frost, Dickinson, Goethe and Shakespeare..
The genius, diverged and blessed,
dare to near them or even be a peer.
Is this how he succeeds?
For honor, glory or fame,
hollow taste on a shifting plate.
To make a case with his name,
front row seat to a noisy fate.
Is this the way he exceeds?
To cry out the voice within,
torn by rapture and unrest.
The trapped vessel, deeply hidden,
to be unveiled, seen and felt.
Is this what his existence greeds?
Or touch others minds and hearts,
compassion shown, respect paid.
Celebrate them like monumental arts,
like eternal summers that do not fade.
Is this what he truly seeks?
I do not know…