No,
the poet is not always
the bringer of light!
he can also bring
darkness, hatred, and pain.
he can sing of evil and ugliness.
the poet knows how to squeeze out tears
and smear blood into your eyes.
from his nails, claws can grow
and from his teeth, fangs.
on his forehead, horns he could place
if ever needed.
No,
the poet is not necessarily
dressed in white garments.
he can pass through naked
and laugh madly in hysterics!
and if you strike him,
he will not always
turn the other cheek.
No,
the poet is no angel!
he is a wound—always bleeding—
on the sick heart of the World
and the sleepless eye on Its forehead,
the unforeseen eye.