…the living poet…

Pity the living poet, reads enough of the greats,

to know he’s touched it so.

Whose works run true, but suffer the gates,

while ages come and go.

He suffers long, and searches deep,

to see the beauty in truth,

and scribes of pain, and tears to weep,

at cost of innocence and youth.

But, small good is learning for the one,

and those at arms length standing,

when a writer’s work is ever done,

to soften a world severe, demanding.

Yet few can know to witness right,

for close are kept his word.

Only quietly held up to the light,

and seldom ever heard.

So, destiny, sans malice forethought,

block his words from widely read.

And here’s the pity, all’s not for naught.

He’ll just be better, to the masses,

when he’s dead.

w.c.w.