to love too much, to love too deeply,
to sink too low, to climb too steeply,
to see the world for all its beauty,
to capture it’s warmth is the poet’s duty
Most times, though, the sun can say it best,
and too the gentle wind may whisper from the west,
as does the younger sister comfort by holding to her brother’s chest.
Yes, yes, indeed, reality, most times, warms better than what any poet says.
But, writing down truths as you see them,
and trying to capture with words, the soft warmth of whispered breathing
For this, the poet writes and speaks,
for this, his life has reason.
For this, the poet’s fate, the emotion, the struggle is worth it,
to try to capture what he has never owned,
this is the poet’s purpose.