Poets
walking
on the edge
of madness
it is said
produce the most
sublime verse
so much more than
the sane man ever could
put in a poem or with a pen
write about the souls of men
so is it acclaim that I would seek
or does that mean I'm mental weak
if I told you that I dream of running naked in the woods
just like a mad and crazy poet would or that I am so elated
at the colour of a simple leaf as it shines in autumn's golden light so brief
or that when I see a girl with golden hair that sways and twirls with a shimmering in every curl
my heart leaps up and shouts out loud to each and every one, to all the crowd, that I am truly proud
that I have it seems a gift to write and share what I see there; in that wondrous golden hair
and when my son says 'daddy look' and I see what he sees, without the shutters of life's closed book
and staring into rabbit's holes I do believe what Alice told and looking into your heart I feel what shines and what is dark
and typing furiously as I can I express that which I am; with thoughts of shadows creeping in
that blind the sight and cage the spirit that I have always been. No I have no fear of madness lurking near
it is an ecstasy within that speaks of dragons in their dens
and fairies dancing in the woods
but as a man that sits and looks
all these things I never would
write about or say to you
if I simply wanted to
be the fellow
on the bus
and never
ever make
a fuss.
David Taylor
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poet-on-the-edge/
