The lingering scent of air
Slowly swayed by breeze.
A cold foggy morning
Lifted with ease.
The poet’s mind is such.
It throws a fit
And makes a fuss
Before it starts to emit
An atmosphere
Weaved by words,
Like Aurora Borealis,
And wage wars.
Wrestles with alligators,
Words, meaning, and play.
Simultaneously threads a needle
To stitch art even in May.
Poets are seldom born,
They are made.
Situations shape the same,
A sleight hand of fate.
For when the globe
Glows in heat
Or icy spikes and icicles
Replace concrete,
Comforted you will feel
And see a starry sky
As you peek into
The poet’s eye.
MARS suggests that although poets seem to weave words from thin air, they use the fabric of life, and experiences to shape their poems. He mentions the extent to which they go to write their poems - they wrangle words and wrestle with alligators, among many other things. He thinks that they kind of people that the last of us will seek comfort from.
