From this man I can see
That the word of the Truth,
Is a much better decree
Than the word of the sleuth.

Much like Keats I find the only raw and concrete
Are these all-knowing words.
These I cannot delete or defeat,
So I let them fly from me like birds.

I cannot exist without my words.
I believe this is my path,
And through the unknown woods
I let my pain fuel my wrath.

I cannot bear to think what this world will become
If we don’t follow our calling.
What would be of Keats, so glum,
Had he not written from what he was brawling?