The thing that I find with Yeats and with Wilde
Their poems wax too clever their rhymes wane too slow
The pulse-beat doth feel too quietly blown
The heart lacks the core the cry that is Wild

Kavanagh now is much more my pace
A drop more musical much more my taste
Still there is only one poet for me
He weaves my soul in sweet symphonies

When I write his rhymes
They curl from my spine
And arc through my heart
Thunder-struck parts

It comes from our core
Now beached on the shore
Therapy self-ministered
The muses administer
For you see he’s me
It’s the only way to be
To hear my own soul
Bear fruits makes me whole

The majestic life pains
Of storms and hurricanes
Rushing twice flushing
Me out of my pout
I race to the space
My hearth fireplace
Where scorn falls ash torn
The end now may bend
Heart now reborn
Wounds now amend.

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