Poet O Poet

Poets O Poets, Must you

Choose to praise, the prime rose?

The one that has hearts of

Lovers cast upon its petals,

Must you adorn the moon?

The one who lights the cupid.

I am not as worthy, but, I dare say...

Poets O Poets, if you seek

The glory of words, then muster

Them in the praise of the Thyme,

That rots on the grave, the War,

Which was no survivors to speak.

For, only then have you, o poet,

Given death, a new lease of life.