The poet’s task’s to salvage beauty,
lay lines from love, not dismal duty.
Washed up with waves of war-torn weeping,
before the sands of time start seeping
he paints a tranquil, true tomorrow,
a wonder-world bled dry of sorrow.
In tears he’s trod the truly tragic
trail, but he can conjure magic!
He’s braved the breaking, beating, bleeding,
for answers, you won’t find him pleading.
This passing star, so soon he’s leaving
his trail of hope to grace the grieving.