The Poet

Once upon a dreary time A boy set out to note a rhyme Pen in hand with paper lined Prepared he was to share his mind But thoughts lay barren and confined Without sense, reason, or rhyme Suffered he did this weary time Both his soul and cheerless mind His eyes grew dark, his face grew lined And tho he sought to redesign Something, anything it need not be fine But the words would not align And in his room he did confine To seek and pray for some sweet sign For the intercession of the divine To show, to prove verse sublime But chaos reigned and nothing aligned And so he collapsed under weight of his crime Chained by shackles of his own design Weeping tears by misery primed The poet thus became the sad mime.