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The Poet

As the subject matter of this piece, I resolved upon composing it myself. Though perhaps my words require clarification. I had decided to write the poem - but not about me. Rather, this brief journey through the thoughts of the writer, were about the poet himself.

In truth, I had entered upon his mind surreptiously. He had been vexed, his emotions floating between the upper reaches of heaven and the lowliest places in hell. I experienced a pang of compassion - aware the writer residing in the soul of the poet was awaiting my arrival.

As a poem, it behoves me to suffer silently, as endlessly strange and peculiar things are written about me. I am not permitted to express my opinion or views, but rather, I must needs be quiet lest the author decry my efforts in seeking to ensure he writes a coherent piece.

Some of my companions died a death of utter shame - so dreadful were the words attaching to their exalted names. However, when I espied the countenance of my despairing host, I endured his agonies as well as his torments. "This poem must be good - but where, oh where is it? And what, indeed, am I to make it about?" I ventured forth into the domain of his heart, and there I whispered to him about the lights in his eyes and illumination of his senses.

The poet glanced in my direction suspiciously and asked, "Are you speaking to me?" And I responded by saying, "No, I am writing about you!" Such was the startled expression on his face, that I almost lost sight of the words as I smiled. I found his face glowing with the beauty of earnestness and the purity of innocence. Many a writer had I encountered during my travels, yet none resembled the perfection nor grace of this one.

He spoke shyly as he said, "But, I am hardly worthy of a poem - I desired a composition of you" I returned his gaze with yet another smile, "You are worthier of words than me, I assure you. The goodness of your being explained all matters to me - your solitude, dignity and attachment to truth. Surely, your love for the word cannot be greater than the word itself!"

The poet was overwhelmed with humility, and murmured a few sentences which my keen ears were unable to catch. Time informed me that it was moving, and as space made room aplenty for my new work, I sketched a portrait of the writer with a few lines here and there. As I completed my task, I gave the poem to the noble companion by my side.

He read it with intense concentration. There he envisioned flowing rivers fathoms deep, mountains so high they touched the skies. As he wandered along the paths created by the poem, he witnessed flowers in unceasing bloom, their scents awakening his being to heightened senses. In gardens green and bright did he walk, his distress a thing of the past. He approached mansions of pure light, and knew that one of them had I assigned to him.

As I accompanied the poet through the poem, I experienced a happiness unknown. To dedicate a piece to the writer of great works, was the fullfilment of all my hopes and dreams. I had often wished to compose a poem - I, a poem! How complete was my joy in realizing that I had written a poem about the poet himself.

 
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