Poets

In the sphere of poets and their musings,

There lies a certain beauty in their eccentric ways.

With dirt under their nails and leaves in their hair,

They embrace the world with a sense of flair.

 

When they sit and ponder, their ghosts take a seat,

And tangles of metaphor weave through their speech.

They choose the window, while novelists prefer the aisle,

For poets see the world through a different style.

 

When they clash, they curdle like milk gone sour,

But when they love, they are like children with power.

Their desks are altars, and black sweaters signal mourning,

As they gaze at the ceiling, their minds are adorning.

 

They see beauty in the mundane, in the everyday,

And their business cards carry truths that might sway.

On one side, a statement, on the other, a lie,

For poets navigate the world with a whimsical eye.

 

So let them be with their dirt and their leaves,

For in their world, they find truth in what deceives.

They are the poets, with their own brand of art,

And in their hands, they hold the beauty of the heart. ("Poets") by Courtney Weaver Jr.