a poet’s rage is as his might

a poet’s rage is as his might,
burning bright, but only true
when all he has to do tonight,
today, is think on how, for you,
heaven’s fire is so trite
in explaining where to who
the most deserving are is right;
to see (it to be), or, then, not to
means the question is a plight,
how else could he you answer true
without ever a will to fight—
he breaks all those rules to know you;

may those perfected patterns, more alive,
then be hard-pressed to see and meet you strive.