Why do poets write in silence?
And garner words below their eyelids,
In gutters of depths that are never quite clear,
Or rifles with full magazines in their holsters?
Are they deserving of a life so riddled,
And caramelized in rhyme and rhythm?
To charm the tales of tempests and oceans,
Cursed with the gift of describing its emotion.
That plagues the shores of their lonely islands
With no other option but to write in silence.