"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The lover, dead beneath those puppy eyes.
The poet, pen to paper makes
A poet’s fortune lies
Instead it pricks his skin and in those drops inky blood
Is set the ballad of demise.
It is the madman, pained and lonely still,
Whose broken stammers see our ill.
Their pure and candid visions tell
That we would toll our own black knell.
The lunatic the lover and the poet,
musketeers of fortune fallen into disrepute
looked upon by a gleeful stoic
whose lines of babble will dispute