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It is like a poet’s soul got lost as many coloured threads of morning shape shift into a tapestry of words of thoughts, that once were forming What we feel, we weave and reap we sow, then writeso we might sleep time passes quickly and life runs deep It is like a goal, or our destiny, got lost the poet’s muse awakened as crumpled pages fall earthward, one by one, like leaves from heaven The soul of mankind is mourning searching for paths to our own salvation while we bury the dead long past saving It is like the song got lost and the past forgotten while the words keep repeating as if to warn us of ruin we chant them like prayers to keep us sane and still human Can we ever rest when caring and integrity seem to fade as we commit earth crimes to invite Mother Nature’s rage our inner spirit dwindles, with the coming of each new age Oh, where did you go Elliot, Woolf, Burns, and Yeats; Oh where, Byron, Shelley, Thomas, Coleridge, and Keats? To the purgatory Milton planned? To a place few understand; to eternity? Oh, where did you spring from Wonders of the World; from aliens, visions, prophets, savages or pagans? If so when, what time and what space; from infinity? How does a poet see thy fate? How does a poet see?