Seeker

Who Is A Poet

I live a life perplexed by a force so wry

A heinous muting wind that smarts my mind

I muse; am I a poet or damned fool to try?

He would arrest my hand as I write the lines

The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold

 

I roam the halls of all the poet gods

In search of the sublime and golden verse

The rooms of secrets holds many facades

I must extract the prize though he lurks

The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold

 

I have no choice at all my die is cast

To scribble verse is my certain kismet

To do so I recall a tortured past

The mocker follows to fulfill his threat

Nevertheless

The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold