Maybe, greatness rising

is a terrible thing.

It can’t help, but climb

and the too terrified

stay on the ground

while courage

accepts the consequences.

A simple subtle life

without fluctuations

or a dangerous one?

A hero, can’t help themselves.

They are what they are

A poet, was a poet

long before

he wrote anything down.

There is nothing careful

about him.

They love him

or hate him.

Love is desirable.

Hate, a consequence of too much love.

Envy, is the enemy of fame.

Anybody who survives that emptiness

is full of their own faith.

Why would a man walk into the mountains?

Because it’s a lofty place.

The poet is looking for

what he can’t find

at lesser altitudes

Not advertised, or publicly know

It hits him

in a piece of music

and

vanishes,

suddenly.

He wants to create that

To live spontaneously

like the twilight

at the end

of a dull day

To stir

his true feelings

standing on the edge of death

while staring

into the horizon

like the last man

on earth.

4 thoughts on “A Poet, was a Poet, Before He Wrote Anything Down

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