The Poet appears no different from other mortal men,
Yet underneath the surface lies something deep within.
Who understands the Poet? The meaning of his verse?
Those words put down, his deepest thoughts, at times, may seem a curse.
What makes a poet different? Can anyone explain?
A loving heart, a quiet soul, his poor tormented brain?
Who looks in the heart of the Poet seeking the reason why.
He writes of love or sadness, a poem that makes you cry?
Who searches the soul of the Poet for the depth of his intent,
And beholds his words as cover-ups for what he really meant?
Who probes behind the printed word,
or hears the voice the Poet heard?
Who peers beyond the Poet’s shroud,
woven of words and worn so proud?
What spirit does possess him to master rhyme and prose?
There is no logical answer, not even the Poet knows.
Who knows how many versions lie crumpled in a heap,
Before he found the very one he knew “just right” to keep?
What special gift has the Poet? A magical pencil or pen?
Who judges the work of the Poet as a lasting poetic gem?
Each has his reason for writing, though his poem may go unread,
Gaining no recognition… till after he is dead.