The Poet, Spinner of the Magic Rhyme
A poet's magical potion he serves, simply derived from his whimsical notion,
Perhaps in its place, allowing much grace, a vocabulary, as wide as the ocean.
A display of yarns, his tapestry unfolds, and sewn with the greatest of all care,
A sharpest needle may serve, as one's very nerve, leaving no doubts, to spare.
The artistry he puts on display, may be so simple, in its special message to say,
a complexity arranged, in colors and shapes, more deep in meaning, to convey.
The brushing of his words on the page, may be reminiscent of a wiser old sage,
Then, perhaps he escapes from an emotional mood, full of empathy and a rage.
With deliberate hands he fashions his wares, much as a potter forming his clay,
Throwing it out, and to turn about, on a wheel of life, revealing his valued array.
His creation is baked in an oven of truths, yet, may be hidden by colors, its stain,
Then offered as the finest pottery to be used, its origin, in his imaginative brain.
The written word is shown, on pages of light, crafted by the most caring of hands,
The magic of the pen and its rhymes, transcend, all the labor, for which it stands.
The dreamer, the schemer, the sunshine beamer, for which his writing represents,
May be taken in kind, as a reflection, sublime, as much as the inventor, so invents.
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