A Poet could be, but never me
For what a poet doth have
I do not.
A passion for art
And a lust for the unknown it might be
But all of these are within me.
To run with The Lions one Must… be fast
The mold is made in strength when dye is “caste”
For in the hunt…there’s much is to dread
Yielding only the Quick and the Unwilling Dead!