When a Poet dies

And in the dead of the night you read,

How he thinks and for whom he writes,

Mark well the manuscript,take heed

To applaud that which even the gods fear to name,

Mark his writings word for word and

know whom to blame,

Whether it’s he who adores with all heart

Or she that trades true-passion an unruly art.

The farther you read the Poet’s mind,

The more you find

That what he cons in his cunning lines,

The other greatly scorns un-groomed lies.

If the despised then becomes the beloved

through his begotten verse,

What remains to be read is the creative masterpiece



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