The Poet

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"