There was once a creature of thought,

One that told of secrets most sought

The secrets of the Secret Keepers,

Knowledge taken from past the Reapers

          This thing stole secrets with its tongue,

Crafting words to sway the dumb

It learned of love and death and strife,

And yearned to spread its love for life

          It told what it knew to all,

Called itself Poet, before its fall

Telling secrets, not its to give,

Cursed from high, yet suffered to live

          The Poet tasked to speak in verse,

Ever to nurse that protean curse

To speak with the reason of rhyme,

Reaching, always, for meter and time

          Though the Poet’s thoughts had great breadth,

A depth unmeasured by mortal breath

A mind that could lose its head,

And find much more in its stead

          It cast its muse to the void,

Ever veering from poetry devoid

And wrote the words that echoed back,

The ones that most poets lack

          Though tongue twisted to the absurd,

Imprisoned by words, with reason unheard

The Poet's prose proved a puzzle,

A feeling that words could not muzzle

          A whisper once forgotten,

Knowledge from secrets begotten

Chasing shadows from the cave wall,

erasing darkness, brightening all

          This is the Poet’s gift,

To see through the worlds rift

To guess at deeper workings,

And to reveal secrets still lurking