Oh, sad Poet, cartographer of the heart, mapping the geography where sadness is the topography of your soul.
Oh, Cousteau of the changing tides, like an oceanographer, an admiralΒ Β spying the enemy on the horizon. Your sorrow comes and goes.
Oh, builder of sad dreams in your house of many rooms, but one door. Like a grave, a casket shellacked with black paint, a mural of a shadow on the wall. Architectural sorrow.
Oh, you sad Poet, open your eyes, paint us a poem of a rose.