The Poet

There's a man made of matter, matter like you and me

But his thoughts are not the same, he's on a different frequency

His fingers are long and slim, and they look like many others

But their mission is not the same, and he toils, not like the man's brothers

He's always walking and thinking, and sometimes he sits head in hand

His waves of joy fade into clouds of depression, he's a very complex man

He's always looking for that time, when everything will work out

But he keeps on working and writing, knowing the truth, with no doubt

The years drift by, he grows old and weary, but his mind is sharp as can be

He collects his wisdom and note how it changes, still waiting for the world to see

He goes through transition, they spread his ashes, beneath the old willow tree

And still he dwells just waiting for someone to say...what a poet was he