Am I to be a poet?
Who writes of all he sees?
Who spews his dreams across the page?
Reflecting harsh and cynical?
Deep within old age?

Shall I grow much in wisdom?
A Sage who’s never enraged?
Filled with patience, hope, and heart
Because he lives on stage?
And his mind on a page
His rage in a cage
The readers head
Filled instead
With the things he never said

What shall I be?
Should I dart to share my art?
In forms of clay and word
Which never will curd but always will curb
And roll and refine
As gems from the mine
That make the most beautiful ring

That’s what I shall be.
A gift,
Shining bright.
—a ring—