The Poet

Life has much poetry--and need to write,
And help he has from man and universe,
And over and over again life tries
To render--and to justify his work.
No poet does his best when first he tries,
Nor puts his work aside because he fails,
So life too--tears a page and a man dies,
And then life tries to write over again.
Without his fountain pen--the universe,
Without his papers, now they are dead men,
Life would not have the multitudes of words
With which--someday--he'll write his great poem.
They--the times he tried without success,
They--each of them told him something new,
And though he tore a lot of men to shreds,
He is forgiven--for all poets do.
Untitled Intense moments grow
from roots - deep in discordant sands;
And precise thoughts propagate
from out of confusion
Hunger blooms from memories
--abundant and so sweet;
And love comes when the contents finds the empty cup --
asleep.

by Rita Sasiene

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