A True Poet

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.