The Poet

Alone he sits at his fated task
Deep in thought, behind his mask
Pen in hand and paper steady
To bleed his passion at the ready

Quill and Ink and words a plenty
Wisdom far past four and twenty
A mind so deep and thought provoked
At times it seems it must be cloaked

A tender heart behind the wall
Disguised but hidden not from all
He reaches out with word and rhyme
It Validates his earthly Thyme

A therapy of sorts it seems
To place the ink upon the reams
Alas another poem written
An ode to those who once were smitten.

View this story's 3 comments.