A poet lives to die daily, in his thoughts, in his words and through his ink,
By this he numbers his days carefully ,and expresses his fate joyfully,
Pouring out his heart to serve his masters gracefully,
To earn his right of immortality and purchase a part in their lives bountifully.
A poet has a room to think, in there he incubates his thoughts and grows his skills,
in his dark room he evolves his mind,and pen his feels,
Sharing his love for all to see and his fears he reveals and hope they are killed,
For It is the life he chose to live, and by his death hopes to be free.
A poet has a world to heal, and even at his death shares the feel,
by his works he immortalizes his beings, and sends them as far as they could reach.
For he honed his gifts, giving his dying breath a voice to sing,
its melodies like a peaceful Lullaby that put a child to sleep.
For a poet lives to die daily, if only he polishes his skills.
©lanceslim
L