The Poet
The heart of a poet bleeds a certain kind of crimson
It seeps through layers, making its way into the folds.
The blood of a poet occupies the dark caverns,
It lays to rest upon places most will never gaze.
The soul of a poet flies on the backs of the eagles,
It entertains in the furthest reaches of the cosmos.
The spirit of the poet steps inside the hidden spaces,
It lurks behind shadows listening to the world expand.
The mind of a poet dances between the lines,
It insists there is more than one tale to tell.
The brain of the power creates bridges that help connect dots,
It remembers and creates all at once.
The body of the poet sits behind a gaze focused on the unseen,
It is the vessel through which it observes.
The vessel of the poet must be nourished and protected,
It records the mysteries and messages of the universe.
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