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?