The Poet

He seems to live beyond reality,
Growing along the backbone of his imagination,
His eyes be wary for him,
His ears be hearing.
A broken pen, a broken castle,
The sweat slithers - sugary sweat,
How delightful he appears to deem
life dead, dead life in thought upon paper
within words of multiple meaning,
And opaque feeling.
He, the poet, the sovereign of writing,
Be to him of heavenly grief.