Long ago, as usual, a Poet sat alone.
Armed with biro scepter, on Ikea throne.

A clothless king, a beggar rich,
Is he who writes the poems which,
Bring about a public’s mood,
But never are well understood.

His words are but a barrier small
A pale indication of a higher call
A poor prison for a tarnished thought
A copperpiece where gold was sought.

For when the Poet rests his eyes
And flees from earth’s unearthly sighs
He dreams and travels deep within
And far away from mortal sin.

And in his dreams he finds a land
he loves but cannot understand
Emotions pure, perfected thought
A beauty Word has never caught.

A silken river, sweet but strong
Stretches out both far and long
Through this sweet fabled scenery
In a wordless kind of poetry.

And birds sing song of wind and tree
Of life’s light laughs and tragedy
And on the silent winds they float
To paint the sky a feathered coat.

And when the poet wakes once more
His eyes grow weary, throat gets sore.
For when he writes in mortal coil,
He mourns the beauty he must spoil.

And people crown him as their king,
The man who knows of what birds sing,
The man that bathed a silken stream,
The man that travelled in his dream.

But when the poet sits alone,
High above, on his cold throne,
The fading light from evening’s sky,
Breaks in the Poet's teary eye.