A young poet sat perplexed at his desk,
ink and quill at arms length.
Still he found
that without his sorrows -
he had no words to note.
The sun, it rose,
and alas it perished,
while the pages before him were -
ever blank.
"How could it be,
that without my sorrows,
I muster no creativity?"
The Wise One shall hear me.
The Wise One shall heal me.
The young poet raised his question
to which the Wise One replied:
"My boy, in time -
you shall find
after I philosophize,
your pages and heart to be tied."
The Wise One sat upon a park bench,
watching the leaves turn red.
Watching the snow fall.
Watching the babes be born.
He sat,
and he sat . . .
and
he
sat.
His hair grew longer,
and the seasons warmer,
but the answer drew,
never closer.
The Wise One never,
found the answer.