The poet


The poet stands over the desk filled with paper

He stares into the worlds that he has created.

Has he lost all control, were his efforts wasted?

If you gaze long enough what will become later?

Slowly, relentlessly, an unsure, steady hand

Carves out beautiful truths that slowly come to life

But my dear reader can you really understand

The power she holds over him, this jealous wife?


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