The Poet’s Lament
They write in ink, in fire, in dreams,
Through quiet nights and muted screams.
They weave the world in perfect sound,
Yet coins don’t fall where words are found.
A poet wakes with thoughts untamed,
Yet none remember how they named
The stars, the seas, the winds that dance—
For art is rich, but luck is chance.
They pour their soul on paper thin,
Their verses deep, yet funds too slim.
Their stanzas soar, yet here they stand,
With empty pockets, trembling hands.
Publishers nod, but wallets close,
A poet’s worth—one hardly knows.
Applause may echo, praises fly,
Yet unpaid poems fade and die.
But still they write, for words are air—
A poet breathes them everywhere.
For wealth may falter, fortunes stray,
Yet poetry will never decay.😊