some words held true
in a corinth of leave
to a poet pondering.
A small and humble jester
in mull and spice
dabbled in the inkling
and a genre was transformed.
An innocent of freedom's plea,
devoid of diary weep
or opinion rendered;
words great and sparse fell
in the quilling.
He wrote as compelled
by lyric and meter,
amused in the unknowing...
"Nothing," he said, "came to mind."
The words in number
became equation...
in mysticism of
mythology and music.
The masses awakened from
diversions of frivolous;
a puzzler they loved
and hoped to understand.
The poet in earnest, smiled...
in the finish he blew the message
to the wind...
no apology, dissection,
defending or solving.
The words will melt
upon minds who
do not seek his truth,
rather, they question their own.
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