Like Cassandra with her visions-
That no man seemed to heed-
The poets sees with different eyes
The things that people need.
But when we pour our hearts out
Upon the printed page-
We're told, "Verse is out of fashion"
We were born out of our age.
So we march to different drummers-
And we hear a different song-
And we seek a new direction-
From the mindless, drifting throng.
And we trek uncharted wastelands-
Of the soul and of the mind-
Yet it's onward, ever onward-
To see what we can find.
I would rather die a dreamer-
Than live a thousand years...
And never know the joy which comes
When sorrow disappears....
And mind takes wings of fancy
And soars to heights sublime,
The land of greener pastures-
And brand new heights to climb.
While in the labyrinth of the mind-
Like some primordial scream-
The poet cries, "I must have space-
O, give me room to dream!"
Live large, people!