Two Poets

For those who say that skill defines the art, And nothing matters more than perfect form, I must admit, they conjure up a storm, That devastates the realm of home and heart. But from this Devil's eyes I now can see, The Ear's delightful rapture in the norm, Because its cadence is so soft and warm, Arranged so that true grace will always be. The true intent behind this long debate, We feel and sometimes know, but will not tell, And if we stay this path, tis only fate To dress the placemats of eternal Hell. Both poets, now together, must create The dove's embrace, the ringing of the bell.