It was the best of rhymes,
it was the worst of rhymes.
It was the rage of scansion
and broken illusion.
The poet sat, the page a blank
No words left in the poet bank.
In a world to ugly to contemplate
No morsel left to integrate
into flowing verse of shimmering beauty
And yet he found it still his duty
To capture the truth held in good men’s hearts
Unpunctured by hateful pins and darts.
Love hidden by stifling fears and lies
Peddled by powerful men less wise
Was it only the poet who held the truth
Was it only the poet who could offer us ruth.