What of poets with their high-sounding words
That speak of love and Heaven-singing birds.
Whose eyes see only precious things
All tripping lambs and seraphs’ wings.
What of unbolted hate and fear
Those voices growing ever near…
Do poets know what it’s like to weep
To with a heart that’s broken sleep?
Yet, if they’ve lived as we have lived
Words do a certain comfort give…
And if they’ve bled and shared our pain
And given all we’ve felt a name
To stir us heart, and flesh, and bone
Our lives laid bare within a poem…
No longer need we feel alone
When others have our sorrows borne