Poets' Pain

The poet’s voice upon the wind
has died, and with the prophet’s twinned:
Both seen as sentimental fools.
Both microscopic molecules

of madness, who the masses mock.
Their prattle is too trite to shock.
So, poets pen to please their pain,
in verse, that burns like acid rain.

They scrawl before dawn’s early smile.
They know she’ll rise and won't revile
their lines, and they’re content to wait
until they’ll maybe legislate

for poets, but they’re no one’s fool.
One day, school kids may find ‘em cool!
When hell turns cold like frozen lakes
and babes play safe with rattlesnakes!