why would one shy to tell a poet’s tale

why would one shy to tell a poet’s tale
such that he turns even from his reading,
but that he only becomes the so good male,
the righteous example of love healing.
see how to watch him move through time and space
is as to watch a wind wind a storm,
and that there are aims you cannot just race
makes men think again before they conform;
a gust brings a squall and brings a breeze by,
so who’s name to you bears the description:
who comes to you and through you flies so high,
his promise to you like his prescription.

the only way to know is by who knows
him, and how it seems with you he grows.

a good trickster is always innocent,
he teaches layman’s relativity
to those who in their manner, reticent,
so hide behind health and society—
innocent as well are their captive foes,
when by his charm they admit him patience;
for such are the races good man straight goes
to when he believes in good recompense.
the trick then is a, certain, state of mind,
not achieved or reached by prayer or time
but being a notion strictly defined
with a motion to match sin or good crime.

but how safe is he now who is thought rich,
thinking none can steal from him, any which—

how afraid is one to give voice to love
when no longer is it’s meaning the same,
as though the sky would fall down from above
if we admit to heights reached without shame—
truth befalls man as does the dawn sweet land,
at earth’s service watering its vast view;
sow with a seed of duty love so grand
that just sweetest fruits come down for you.
doesn’t it pour over in waves, passion,
love the good reason for its flight and fight,
is then substance what one ought to ration,
or infinity and made meaning, bright;

so say there are shades and hues, if you will—
just gold and silver though, else you get nil.