This Poet

This poet is a tragic thing,
composing with a wounded wing.
Poor bird of sorrow, caught and snared;
he’s convict in a cage who’s scared.

A sad and sickened soul, he sighs,
like skylark who no longer flies.
A graceless, grounded, direful dove
lamenting over losing love.

This poet has a morbid mind,
since love he lost he cannot find.
She haunts him like a spectral shade
by coast, on hills, down sleepy glade,

where wild he wanders, lost in prayer.
His heart is broke; his soul is bare.
The pain from long-lost love he feels,
before his goddess ghost he kneels.