POEM FROM THE VICTORIAN GARDEN

 

The Subjectless Poet

 

There are many with genius born

But sadly unable to show it

Of such a condition forlorn

Is a willing but subjectless Poet.

He sits in the gloomiest gloom

He thinks of the dreamiest dream

Abstractedly paces the room

But vainly he looks for a theme.

Futility gradually smothers

The fire that is burning his brain

But, inspired by the efforts of others

He goes o’er the process again

Till wearied by efforts he dies

And his body’s interred ‘neath a hearse

On which should be written, “Here lies

A Poet who ne’er wrote a verse.”

The End

 BY M. Smith