The old poets write of archaic heroes;
the old poets sing of tragedy and pain;
the old poets know of woe and triumph;
the old poets make words that forever remain.

The new poets dabble in life and in darkness;
the new poets scribble their madness on page;
the new poets read what the old poets wrote;
the new poets write out of freedom and rage.

I write to relive and I am doomed to re-die
if only the emerald would leave my eye,
and stain every plane of my memory's mind,
and promise every secret my future might find;

I write to give slivers of salt to the world
I long for the knowledge that I am doing this right
I write for the forlorn fire in the palm of my hand -