The Soul of all language,
A Birth newly found,
A Sea of expression,
Unleashed, without bound.
Within Human madness,
A Poet is Love,
That mourns now and always,
The death of a Dove.
A soft spoken butterfly?
That has no guide,
Of where to fly,
A constant Dreamer,
Mortified,
By stale Events,
That are Glorified!
So many Planets!
Poets have theirs,
For they really think,
Stars do have stairs,
That they can climb,
And with time,
Become pure Rhyme!
So if you want to live a Lie,
Become a Poet,
Now you know Why.