Poet and his Pride embraced

Many a thought lush
Knocked at your door, but oft left
Disdained, trampled, stained.
In waning, some took to heart -
What fell the pilgrim of art.

Who tell you sagely,
The feel whose fondness you keep
For it adores you,
Cloaks a wily face that swears
To your absolute disgrace.

Do you not behold
Oneself be found in barrens -
Where no art occurs,
For no tulips blossom fain
And no phesants dance in rain.

Step out - I beseech -
From your realm suffused with self
Into the outdoors,
Where, in its forms lot, Beauty
Beckons your truest duty.

Sep 1, 2012