The Making of a Poet

A step precarious
Incognito he entered a life;
Not as lover, but a friend divine.
The woe-be gone lad
Who for her did beg...
No quest had she
To seek strangeness,
But the soul graced her-
And a flood of inspiration unbound.

No quest had she-
To seek profanity,
But her pen truant
Gropes for that sadist now:
Fervent, Passionate, Painful soul-
His dripping eyes
Spoke injury.
And relentless passion
Dark yet divine,
Provoked into existence
A poet hidden, unknown.

A step precarious,
Incognito he entered a life,
To make her cry
To make her smile,
To turn her wild.

He was nothing but pain
A painful pleasure,
With a pain-filled past that-
Dripped and smeared his present.
Uncertain, subtle...so profound
He was imperfect yet sound!

Igniter of passions wild,
Passions countless in souls mild;
The heathen spirit
Inspires and moulds.

The King of kings,
Virtue yet Vice,
He was Poetry, he was Christ!
King, yet a beggar he was-
Begging for love that calms.

His was the voice-
That a deluge brought
Of passions strong,
Tumultuous as the wind...
As wild as his own spirit.
Finally grafted in letters mild.
He made her a poet-
A wild poet!!!!!!