Was a Poet never heard,
For it never was his hour.
He had gone and warned the World,
Of impending, danger, power,
But the people kept on dancing,
Just like fools, around his tower.
Poets, Idealists and Lovers,
This old World has never changed,
Poets, stay in Ivory Tower
And pretend you are deranged.
With ketchup bells,Stale French fried smells,And dill kosher pickles,All ready to go.
That we do have a spirit,And are not but vile flesh,It will be thru Art and Poetry,That we’ll unravel the mesh.
So, kept insideTill it chocked me,But one day,Came out for air,Thin, scared and lonelyLove,Too late for prayers.Too late for tearsTo late, to even care.
With yourselfAnd others,What more beautifulOr better meansof CommunicationBetween life’s lovers.
Than evenPoetry.Hard to describeHow emotions arriveWith such different,Intensity,For a poet’s loveDoes defy,All of realityWanting to be, even more,Than poetry can ever say,Or love can ever be.
Almost everything,They are inquisitiveFools,Idealists,Sad Clowns,That put on a showOf words,PretendingAnswers, found.
