By magificent happenstance
Or, perhaps, it was all set in stone
A wandering and typically luckless poet, a clone of Dickenson/Keats
All too willing to write about, unravel each and every thing he may have once known
Bowed at their feet, creating a serence and telling story all of his own, dams down, a sincerely impenetrable flow of words
One that couldn’t but take on all of these demons
Crucify what may have long been deemed absurd
Be the dancing fiddle to their harrowing crossbow
Bare your teeth, meet every single wordsmith right in the middle