Of Poets

One angry little man
was sitting on a bench
while reading poems
that seemed hollow
to his mind but somehow
touched his very heart.

He knew that every start
was followed by an empty page
and that is what had brought him rage
and had awakened discontentment –
that confusion looked like haze
behind the glasses he had put on
to enhance the vision that for now
was blurrier than ever.

He misspelled the very words
he cherished in his chest,
they were as dear to him
as every breath he took
to fill the air with lyric,
to delight the endless
pleasure seeking minds
that chase the poets to their death
and carry waves beyond their graves.