To be a poet,
Who with his brush of words,
Touches true upon life,
Applying colours,
Bright and rare,
In subtle nuances and shades,
To frame within the readers eye,
Some perfect landscape;
Or diamond perfect thought,
That has through time been,
True to his own sight,
Thus through his shrewd artistry,
He trys to bring new understanding,
To this imperfect world.
These are not tears,
Yet if they were they would not fall for you,
But be against the death of innocence,
That rare and fragile bloom,
Which once I had and showed the world,
Where cold winds tore the blossom from me,
And those desires with aspects strange and wild,
Held hedonistic revels at its passing,
Misshapen thoughts cavorting wild,
In raptures at their own deformities,
Writhing in such sensual pleasure at,
My wild fall from grace.