The Poet

Harsh prose cannot break the poet’s spirit,
Who writes with the inspired and flowing lines,
Beyond the milestones, where the summer’s merit
In ringing rhythms gracefully entwines.

He thinks of subtle things, of depth and soul,
When binding phrases to the heart’s own cry,
In cruel times, he plays a faithful role:
"Write on, write on," the words he lives them by.

In secret harmonies and glowing light,
He finds the symbols of a day to be,
Defying melancholy’s gloomy blight,
He serves the Lyre, luring with melody.

He blends the sonnet’s truth, so deep and vast,
With poems of a fate both dark and grim,
He writes with passion, holding to the last,
While empty rumors never conquer him.

To scornful foes, he gives what is their due,
Restraining heat to keep his conscience clear,
A palette of new meanings, through and through,
He murmurs, moved by what he holds so dear.

Romantic, tragic, faithful to the core,
To truth of plot he pledges every breath,
In flights of thought, like freethinkers of yore,
A work of Michelangelo, defying death.

Like a chisel cutting shadows from the stone,
With daring strokes he carves the path he trod,
In ecstasy, or lost in worlds unknown,
Transforming life into the cantata from God.