Identity

Is it the poet’s lot,

That he should never know,

The life he carefully describes,

And the love he claims to know?

Is he forever cursed to be,

Observer and outsider both,

Forever locked in weaving words,

While others dance,

And others sing?

Is it for him to walk alone,

While others fear,

His words and mind,

And do they see him,

Always as,

The things which draw,

The words from him?

Is he forever,

Lost to hope?

2rm2r0o

 

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