The poets pen, is skilled in hand,
writing down what his soul demands.
Ink spills from head to heart,
the fire of spirit plays it's own part.
On cold early morning's dim light,
he sits alone to solemnly write,
futile messages, to the Earth of men,
lightening hearts, quieting this din.
Meandering thru a life's malaise,
honing skills, and sharpening blades.
Quietly observing the life around,
feeling all, and dwelling on the sound.
No man common is Poet, for sure,
uncommon sense of thought so pure.
His ink spills from head to heart,
fire of his spirit plays it's own part.
Words escape the emotional instinct,
forming sounds, both lyrical and succinct.
Spiced tidbits of wisdom and proven truths,
to be judged by it's merits, and it's fruits.
In the search of the mystery and the magic,
his life in this mist, is very often tragic.
Spread his truth lightly, in verse, and rhyme.
Then He stands it alone, thru critic and time.