The Poet
By Anthony Edwards
The poet looks in stillness in the silence of his mind
In hope that inspiration is the only thing he’ll find
He searches for a gentle nudge to push him at the start
And propel his pen to freedom through the rhythms of his heart
The poet is a sorcerer and reason is his quill
From thin air he congers prose and bends it to his will
Truth inside his cauldron bubbles, stirring in his lies
And fantasy, like a potion, in the face of logic flies
The poet does not dance upon his stage for just his pleasure
Though his audience is absent and loneliness his treasure
His only fair reward is for his genius to be counted
Paid in full long after his headstone has been mounted
A poets private wish, if only he could tell
Is for his cryptic, hidden meanings to one day ring a bell
In the minds and hearts of readers, who would wonder how he knew
To touch them so profoundly, as only poetry could do
