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It is a fever.

  
The poet

They found the poet outside the park

His steps spoke many words of wine

His upper half seemed half asleep

And his feet walked a crooked line

His arms were spread as if to fly

His lips apart as though to speak

The telltale flush of liquid joy

Told tales of  rum from cheek to cheek

The night herself caroused with him

Drunk on sadness, drunk on care

And drink they drank, the weary lovers

Setting wine against despair

The bonds of reason, broken down

His mind amok, and absent sense

The world in woe, the world in glory

Lay before his presidence

 

And it was then they walked to him

Rudely rousing man from dream

Casting eye on village bard

Taking man as man would seem

"Sing for us again, o bard

Cast your words at senses keen"

This was why they broke his peace

Winters twice his summers seen

"Sing for us again o bard

Spin sweet words from bitter truth

Stir the embers of your heart

Dig through elder years to youth. And

Let the fountain spring with might!!

Showering us with wisdom earned

Showing us the link in hand

Of teachers harsh and lessons learned

Free yourself from wine's embrace!

We would hear a tale or two"

Turns to them, a wizened face

"Ask not man, but what is due."

Graying eyes regard the gathered

Moving on, from face to face

"The world whirls in the hands of time

And yet all things remain in place"

"As yet all men remain the same

The board reset a dozen times

Pi-eces unaltered, so is game

Though rearranged, the given lines

You come to me as bank to debtor

You plague me with unbridled want

Says at last, man to tormentor

'Cease at once your unjust haunt""

It is a fever

"It is not a gift so given

It is not a boon bestowed

Nor is sight beheld as blessing

When the eyes have overflowed

With the sorrows of existence

Pain cavorts with all men born

Know the price of your persistence

Hear the words of man forlorn

What is loss compared to weakness?

What is pain compared to need?

When the soul suffers from sickness

To give blood to those who bleed

O for those suffering in secret

O for hidden scars concealed

Know a secret's mark of secrets

Is in wounds that never healed

The world at large, and I remain

Numb in spirit, numb of mind

My inner coldness feed by pain

Reaped from years left far behind

 

It is a fever that I have

It is an illness I possess

It is a symptom that you worship

It is a sign that you profess

To love, to need, to love to hear

While I remain diseased of soul

You chant and clap then disappear

Then falls to me, each telling's toll

 

It is a sadness that I feel

It is madness that I suffer

When the muses offer gifts

Turn your backs and run for cover

Talent has a price, and paid

This price I have, each passing day

Rise to cup and rise to can

Drink my fill then come what may

All my masters come before me

Warned me of the poet's curse

Know you all of Byron's story

Know you all that Poe's was worse

Happiness is bound to beauty

Joy to all that beauty, see

But for those that birth said beauty

All is pain and tragedy

Listen to my fading voice, now

Listen to my silent plea

Know the doom of every poet

And ask of this, no more from me

I will fellowship with Bacchus

Gimlets of the finest sort

Rise to can and drunken glory

Fall to pleasure and cavort

Now my night bids me return

Wine is all that shields from sorrow

Sets me free from all concern

Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"

His soul unburdened, back unbent

All is caught in a lengthy pause

He turns to go, the air is rent

With sounds of cheer, and of applause

Now lowering balding head to ground

"Man may speak but none may hear

Sing for us again o Bard,

Has now become a thing to fear"
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