The Chosen

The poet’s soul is like no other.
It’s sister to the stars; her brother’s
the faery folk, each mystic creature
and goddess girls who’ll never feature
or figure in most mortal’s thinking;
(She’s seen them mock while slyly winking.)

Her precious soul it senses beauty
and deems it her most solemn duty
to paint a picture on her pages,
with words of wisdom: just like sages!
Yet not pretentious, paltry preaching;
With rhyme, she’s turns her hand at teaching!

The poet’s soul is swathed in sorrow.
Since beauty, to be born tomorrow
will not be held or owned by many;
She weeps and wonders if there’s any
who’ll wake when world is filled with gladness
and sun has set on all this sadness.

Her sincere soul is slowly dying;
It’s drained of blood and tears from trying
(with desperation’s deep desire
and heaven’s true immortal fire)
to touch the hearts: stone cold and frozen;
Oh how she wished she’d not been chosen!