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The Poet

The poet wrote, by day and night
Of things, for others, had less light:
He wrote the dawn, into a storm
He wrote the dirt, into a worm
He wrote his heart out, on a leaf
And into joy, inserted grief.

And as day dawned, upon his words
They saw things, which seemed absurd;
A tree grew thickly from his chest,
With hanging fruit, of nature’s best;
His arms to angel wings, had turned
But his heart: black-smoked and burned.

The smell of incense; smoke and myrrh,
From his burnt heart, just grew and grew
His body; turned into an altar,
His words, into a sacred psalter
Where lovers go, to say their vows
And no more care, for ‘whys’ or ‘hows’.