The Master Poet

The Master poet seems to be absurd at times with words
with broken wings-
he cannot become true divinity.
Must he explain himself before the masses?

Serpents gather to lounge and tongue amongst themselves.
But the poet, the master, he collected knowledge
in this state of being.
Solitude.

Unafraid, but not unaware
in his dark paradise

Dancing ghosts, dancing words,
dreams the poet.

At nearby moon,
to be among the living
unfolding words dramatically spoken.
The face, the eyes so revealing.

Writing has become his religion.
The cure for his broken wings.
But did he really have broken wings?
A light in his darkness-
his fears become non-existent.