I speak with poets old and almost ancient,
Pressing their books against my burning chest,
Trying to stay with their verses patient,
Understood by few, complex to the rest.
I read the sonnets of the lovestruck Bard,
In little books who're filled with lofty meanings,
Finding it sometimes easy, and sometimes hard
To really understand 'bout what he sings.
My colored imagination is filled
With worlds unknown to windows of souls,
Right there, only with sweet tenderness build,
Making it easier to reach my goals,
    I travel, see and float with poetry,
    To gates of other worlds, while she's my key.