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Poem

A poet worth his salt is one that feels
each vowel he is tossing in the air;
And poetry's the altar where he kneels
to thank the Almighty in a fervent prayer.

He works as hard as fifty slaves combined
to make his poems loved and understood
while striving for the worthy and refined,
he puts to verse his ever-racing moods.

The sleepless nights, the crumpled sheets, the fire
of his impassioned soul, to serve his Queen.
The goddess Poetry, his one desire,
for her he would be faceless and unseen.

At sea, at home, while strolling at the beach,
the rhyming harmony torments his soul.
His muse and quill are never out of reach
enduring passion steals his self control.

Oh, what a bliss, to live in your embrace,
the nymph of rhyme, the fairy of the verse.
Urban sprawl, a bard's immune to space.
Atlantis, his poetic universe.

His stalks his Muse, and she, a grateful slave
to stirrings of his soul, a mother hen.
She waits on him, while he, ungrateful knave,
barrages her in his concocted glen.

A true poetic soul will never ask
for olive laurels it did not deserve.
A humble pilgrim, in a nameless mask
poetic spirit's born to woe and serve.

Through the centuries, the poets write 
to bring across their effervescent light.

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