The Poet’s Soul

The Poet doesn’t own his soul;
Psyche has, in her control
All his being and his heart,
And nurtures these with cunning art.
She took possession at his birth –
A theft by Heaven from the Earth.
In his dreams she talks to him
And commands his every whim.
From Fate, his Soul she tries to hide,
Which, jealously, she keeps aside.
The Poet she has taught to write –
To sing her praise by day and night.

Psyche’s head has flowing hair –
For she travels through the air.
To the poet she will fly
When inspiration has run dry.
A laurel crown is what she brings,
And she gives him golden wings,
So his mind it can take flight –
For he sees with inner sight!
A vision to his soul she sends,
A dictionary of dreams she lends.
His fertile brain with seeds she’s sown –
A Poet’s soul is not his own.

Psyche throws a net of gold
To capture stories never told.
And when the poet gazes out
She will cast her net about.
She will find love for his heart,
Then kill it with a poisoned dart.
Riches in his bowl she’ll pour,
Then leave him begging with the poor.
The Poet’s longing she will tease –
But his words to her will please.
Her desire she has made known –
A Poet’s Soul is not his own!

He is consumed by Psyche’s quest;
From her demands he has no rest.
And in her service he’ll explore
Continents, and books of yore.
But he is lost when Psyche goes –
He feels the restless wind that blows.
Strange, devouring dreams he’ll fight,
And ghosts will visit him at night.
He’ll live – but inside he’s dead!
On emptiness his soul is fed.
From wanton sickness he has fell
and stumbled by the Gates of Hell.

But Psyche cannot leave him there –
For he’s forever in her care.
With healing guile she’ll wash his eyes
And bring him fruits of Paradise.
Though he was a pallid thing,
Now his soul has taken wing.
She gives him meaning and a cause –
His merits earning her applause.
Wisdom he’s compelled to seek,
Truth and Beauty’s words to speak.
Intertwined their hearts have grown –
A Poet’s Soul is not his own!