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.