The poets’ chivalry

The poets are all desperate.

The feather wilts in their hand

before the meaning is set on stone.

The words dance on a white stage

with masks on – enchanting and brave.

 

A drop of morning dew; the poison

that numbs the poets’ thoughts.

A ray of sun; the clean slate

for the drunken fumes.

 

The poets are all desperate.

A chivalry that bears at night

the animosity of light piercing the sky,

now lets notions trail off to reach the ground…

And once they touch you, they sublime!

 

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