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The Poet
His moral foundation is complete;
now too adamant to budge.
It’s full of glorious celestial light,
filled to the brim with magnificent
divine gardens, and other entities
authentically formed to be well-known
relatives of divinity,
all locked secure in skin, bone and blood.
His mind is too precious
for this atmosphere of chaotic irregularity.
At times, the poet is arid of any words;
he regularly longs to drink more words;
it’s impossible for the poet to be thirsty no more.
The poet is omniscient yet only of skin,
bone and blood.
He has to continue to delight his senses.
The only way for the poet to live is to walk
on every footprint on the mud
and to have seen every miniscule crack
of soul and after having loved.
In every grassy field through incessant dreams,
the poet delights his senses
as the poet is only made of skin, bone and blood
and there are always more things to see.
