The Poet

Written by: david goodwin

Metered summer days quick-dry the fresh mirage
 so just because, we'd ring the bell,
 and opened every door no matter where we'd been!
 Except for in my den
 but, things all ended up well;
 I'm the sincere poet.
 
Magic muse that abuses my every suffering
 leave me be in silence, from my cell;
 be honest, tell me should I "post"?
 I'm really, just the host;
 be too dark, and your poems may not sell;
 I'm the tortured poet.
 
Chairs of stanzas quietly grinning
 be seated, and we'll change to the channel,
 it's all in how I read it!
 I'm trying to conserve my spit;
 I'm reading just as fast as a gazelle;
 I am the puppet poet.
 
Treating paper and ink as oxygen,
 shuffling sheets during the changing of the well.
 I can't imagine what they'd think
 did he have too much to drink?
 he was truly great before he finally, fell;
 I'm the retired poet.
 
Memories housed in dissarray, posthumously
 be patient for I have a tale to tell,
 deciphering will take time
 don't say now, I should have, rhyme
 your hunger, I cannot seem to quell;
 I'm the dead poet.