A poet sat in melancholy, self-reflective morbid folly, in the iron grip of writer’s block. He found no words to grace his pen, and thought he’d never write again. Then Lucifer himself came by to mock.
“Oh Poet. You have had your time. No more will you carouse in rhyme, no more will metric musings reign supreme. The days of formal verse are done; The world has faltered then moved on without the cadent essence of your dream.”
The poet answered in reply, ”Not while there lives one such as I, for poetry is of a form divine. To me a verse is so much sweeter couched in modulated metre. Drafted to fulfil some grand design.”
The ozone reeked an odorous smell that leaked out from the jaws of Hell Ten thousand imps leaped out to take the stage. The air filled with ferocious frizzle, simmering sounds and sulphurous sizzle. Spitting snarling clamourings of rage.
Blighted trees fell to the ground. Birds ceased from flight without a sound, as demons plied their parody of verse. Lightning flashed in an acrid sky, grass turned brown and seas ran dry in fearful response to Satan’s curse.
The poet viewed the face of Death. He cleared his throat and drew a breath. His words rang out in semblance of a prayer. They resonated, crystal clear, encompassed all he held most dear, and spread like perfume through the tainted air.
He stood before the evil throng, his voice uplifted in his song, and every word rang honestly and true. Each fashioned facet of his art a mirror of his noble heart, in exhibition openly on view.
The Poem spread Her wings and Blessed all of the Love his words caressed. The Devil turned away with manic scream. Left to observe and contemplate that Love will always conquer hate, so long as poets hold on to the dream
A.
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