The Poet

Can one know the name of the poet? I think not. For they themselves are unsure as to their true identity. For they are the painter, the storyteller, the linguist, the historian, the dreamer and dream catcher. They give and take away in words that which is longed for, that which is sought after, the unobtainable. And yet in a few brief words worlds are created, dreams are dreamed and adventures begun. Within the poet are all that we desire, all that we hate, all that we love and long for. The poet is the unknown and yet their words have a familiar sound, a familiar vision of that which was, that which is and that which is to become. They are the invited and thee uninvited guests of the mind and of the heart and of the soul. Compelled to be read because of some faintly remembered line. They are the lover for the faint-hearted, who with trembling hand copies that which has already been written and is now desired to be read. The poet is in each of us, mysterious, unobtainable, unknowable. And yet...somehow we feel that...