Drowsy, he roams,
The neglected poet,
Often starved and ridiculed,
The fabled Elysian Fields,
Seen by the likes of Homer, Hesiod,
Pindar and Virgil,
The poor soul,
Sampling happiness,
Otherwise denied on
Plain earth by indifferent
Family and friends;
He watches the dancing sunflowers,
Transfixed as an ecstatic kid,
Like the misunderstood
Van Gogh, driven mad
By the general callousness,
Later declared a master by
The laughing same world!
He---the special child,
Finds pleasures in the
Brilliant starry nights;
Wandering in the heavens
And the care-worn but
His dear earth, his real home,
The artist creates beautiful worlds,
For others, and, living in both realms,
Earth-bound, yet gaze fixed heavenwards,
The tattered maker of images divine,
In every age, through such acts,
Recovers his sanity and
Delicate balance and gets temporarily restored,
He, like Shelley and Keats,
Prepares daily for the fresh brutal assaults,
On his senses, sensibilities,
Values, deeply-cherished,
Beliefs, profoundly held,
By an ugly, uncaring,
Monetized world,
In search of fresh blood,
After crucifying a Plath and Wolf! |
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