3 September 2012
To the poet words are more akin to blood, For without them he cannot become the man he should.
The Wordsmiths tools, for his daily bread is earned by ink and quill, To turn a thought into a gleam, is beyond our Layman's skill.
Verbose in thought A gift cannot be taught And garrulous with his pen, The words spark from his deep within and etch upon the minds of men.
Golden verbs, silver prose, appear with flick of his wrist, That gently fall upon us all as a cloud of rhyming mist.
And when thoughts stop, strikes like a blight, the reason obscure, unclear, The words akin to blood dry up and leave us all in fear.
For the writer interprets the world as we would like it, the only way to survive,
In a world so covered with dross and banality, the only way imagination remains alive.
Life In Words • Opuss № I