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a lonely Poet sits by an opened window
listening to Chopin playing every beautiful
keynote of every cord ever written
triumphantly strumming with one hand
on a baby grand air piano taunted
teasingly by those who have been
weighed on a scale and found wanting
at the final curtain plunging deeper still
the lonely poet knowing why the ripple
effects flow outward with every pelt
counting every collected stone thrown
keeps playing the same song no one
wants to hear even though it's almost
the end of the year the curtains swept
yet still have yet to fall on the symphony
only the lonely sits in he balcony
looking over the landing head in hand
head over hill for the thrill of it all
where there is pad and quill the lonely
poet is enthralled to lace up for the ball
the sound of thunder can disturb
the world of wonder climbing
mountains so high even the moon
covers its eyes and if that old sun
don't shine it's still time to write
pour some wine toast the passing clouds
