It is said
That a brave man
Dies but one death,
And a coward
Dies many—
But then there is
Outside the rules
The poet:
Born with the first word
A new creation;
A Titan by a line—
And when in full
Fancy flight, a divine
Both dark and light;

In truth, the poet
Dies and lives
Between refrains;
The only real pain
For him—the length
Of a blank page;
Pressing his opiate,
The almighty pen
(Immortal with his
Own write),
Even when nothing
God-like to say
For cloud shapes only
He inks his pipe
Again and again
Getting pleasure enough
From the poetry
Smoking away….