In the corner sits a poet
Watching as the world wildly, whirls round and round.
A poet sits there wishing, watching, writing
But the foxes around are too busy to know it.
The foxes, when alone can be caught worrying, wondering, whispering
Yet snickering, snitching, and smiling as they sit in their senile circle.
The kingdom is a fox, flashy, false, fake.
But in that tiny, turning, truthful moment
When ignorance becomes bliss…
The kingdom becomes a canteen of colors, creativity, charisma,
And the poet sits there watching, writing, welding the power to unmask the world
In the corner, invisible, sits a poet
Watching as the world whirls wildly round and round.
In the corner sits a poet,
But the world is too
Self-centered, self-serving, and self-conscious to know it.