Mad, Dead, or Poet Born

The wine of poetry is a wild beast,
That consumes from deep inside,
Like a storm that can’t be made to rest,
That will always come to the shore,
A roaring wind that tears the soul,
And rips limbs from shaking limbs,
They don’t warn that all three are but one,
Mad, dead, and poet born.

When poetry rises from the poet’s soul,
And makes its presence so plainly known,
It’s not a thing you can stop or tell be still,
It knocks and knocks ’til you finally let it in,
And its not a guest that just sits idly by,
It demands you pay the endless tithe,
They don’t warn that all three are but one,
Mad, dead, and poet born.

The endless quest on the poet’s path,
The winding ever-changing ways,
Are full of dangers none else can know,
And mist-filled turns where all is lost,
Many they are who lose their way,
And lie dead along darkened trails,
They don’t warn that all three are but one,
Mad, dead, and poet born.

So taste the mead or taste the wine,
From vat or cauldron or bloody graal,
The draught that brings the endless thirst,
That every poet’s soul will ever know,
But if you do taste this bitter brine,
Know the terror of the poet’s path,
They don’t warn that all three are but one,
Mad, dead, and poet born.

~Mad, Dead, and Poet Born by Bethany Davis, September 17, 2017

17 September, 2017 Excerpts - Bethany Davis

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Author: admin@caerillandria.com