Drops of Dew
Poetry is an expression of untamed emotions recollected in cool tranquility
The young poet sat in his room
Making his way through the study
For he was no student to language, no sir
It was science he was to groom.
Science my sir, if you don't now know,
That which has reason
And art for it is treason
And scoffs it at your sky, your snow.
Yes he was a student of science, he was
And he sat in his room now poring
And yet least was he like
Those other of his brethren.
The songs he loved played dimly about
And such was his disposition;
He had his pen now posed
To defy reason, to heart his spill.
And he waited for the words to come
For the emotions to have their own open way
The same way, times before
His heart on his hands had hum.
But the moment came and a moment was gone
The paper lay empty
But for a few drop of dew.
More than a poem stays unwritten tonight.
Dare you call him a lousy writer?
Dare you call him a lout!
A fool invalid to break the reason around him
A beggar to dare and look without.
Renaissance they said kindled hearts
Renaissance the same, I say has taken lives down
Reason, has it given me a spark
Or has another spark it drowned?
Who shall I blame, reason or me?
Or shall I just do away with time
For something that was is long long gone
Something I claim, still, was mine.