Dear Poets


Dear poets


And to the poets:


Whose task lies heavily within: the darkness that becomes of light.


Whose vice is of the power of the verse.




Cheers to thee, to thy honor too.


For the world is all in one your home and kingdom.


And thy kingdom come not at one’s noble prompt request.




Weather one can admit life’s touch or not;


This world, where in it shadows dance:


Is only ruled by the beholder!




And so dear kings and queens of many lands.


Quite petty it truly is, to write solely about one’s self.


Where upon so high and mighty: Nothing Grows.




No, not common fear.


No, not brightening joy.


Heavens no, not love.




But others; common folk…


And artist too (by trade),


Call life an art, and assuming that this art is not too a twist of phrase:




The art of living lives inside us all.




And so It is, the flame…that sparks within,


That is the key, to our otherwise lonely yet whimsical plight.


Despair no more, and save those words in wonder because:




Non near closer to the truth,


Non know night to-knight the trance,


Non but poets will, can tame the tune.




And so we lock ourselves within that keep.


Where light is only lit where it is wanted,


Is then envisioned,




Shadowless, no less a thing at least.


Emotionless, no more a fool or pleasant tool.


Penniless, but no more closer in the art.




Where life would not be given breath,


Instead we give it voice.


We give life to all good thoughts and ends.



We knight it true enough at least,


And with our scripture lead it fine and free,


To live and fight beyond that hour, but ultimately:




“To be”, and with that known; be free.


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