The Poet

Basking in his pain
Basking in his joy
Pen to paper all day long
Screaming from the marrow of his bones
Plucking strings of copper
That leave callouses hard and cold
Eyes of piercing blue
And a velvet covered soul

A disciple of discipline
He blisters in patience
Flailing at indifference
With words wrapped in gold
Nothing you could ever mouth
About your trials or triumphs
Could paint the picture better
Than the brushstrokes he inspires

Living in the trenches
Of what life torrentially brings
Ordained by ordeal
God placed a finger on his chestnut crown
And christened him The Poet