A living poet writes for those not born,
for those who wake, and live as if they're dead
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.

A pat of praise upon a loaf of scorn's
what constitutes a rebel's daily bread.
A living poet writes for those not born.

An elegy to comfort those who mourn,
to weep the sadness they have left unshed
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.

To lovers, unrequited and forlorn
whose stillborn passion never left their heads,
a living poet writes for those not born.

A few rare people, worldly, wise and shorn
of most pretense, will grasp what's being said
and those, who resurrect themselves each morn,

will reach for pen and paper, and adorn
us all with sacred words, keep spirit fed.
A living poet writes for those not born
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.