When a Poet Dies

When a Poet dies
And, in the dead of the night, you read
How he thinks and for whom he writes,
Mark well the manuscript, take heed
To applaud that which even the gods fear to name.

Mark his writings word for word and
Know whom to blame,
Whether it’s he who adores with all heart
Or she that trades true passion for an unruly art.

The farther you read the Poet’s mind,
The more you find
That what he cons in his cunning lines,
The other greatly scorns as ungroomed lies.

If the despised then becomes the beloved
Through his begotten verse,
What remains to be read is the creative masterpiece.