The Poet In Twelve Lines
Eureka, a thought, a pause, a word unwritten, floats above him
A sign to this gullible soul, a warning, depression may soon strike
The poet smiles inside, no buffoonery here, his fingers tensed, ready
Brain alert, hands freed to strike the keys, to make language appear
He is not just a putter down of words, he lives inside an extraordinary world
Empathy, his spectacular gift, phrases shared to bare the wounds and pleasures of Mankind
Ubiquitous, should be the poet's middle name, his verse is truth, found everywhere
In mountain village, towering cityscape or humble home, the poet's lines are read and spoken
In them, his expression of love, of life, of folly is understood, passed from one to the other
Groups will gather to discuss, to share his thoughts, his written word
Black letters placed on paper, his inner songs spread to open ears and willing hearts
Imagination fired in others by the fingers of a solitary person, depression defeated again today
Admitted Poetry Soup 5/18 poem submitted 5/31/18
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