The Poet’s truth lies not
within the sum of meaning
latent in the words he says..
But rather in the feeling
that the product
of his words conveys.

The Poet’s power lies
not in the way he synthesizes
words into a rhyme.
But rather in the way their synthesis
Compresses time…
By breathing holy into the mundane.

The Poet’s honesty is not his crime..
It is The Poet’s Stethoscope.
It diagnoses madness of the sane.
It is The Poet’s Stone.
Transfiguring despair to hope
and wicked to sublime.
It is the heavy weight which he is damned
to always push alone, to always push uphill,
up to the very summit, time after time..
Only to watch it roll downhill.
Such is The Poet’s punishment.
Such is The Poet’s will.

The power of The Poet’s truth
lies in the honesty with which
he speaks his truth to power.
But it is audible only to those
who hearken to it with a careful ear
upon a late and lonesome
midnight hour.