A poet is a tourist

a poet is a tourist wherever he goes,
looking in on others lives,
beach combing for prose.

so that he may go inward,
reinterprate what he sees,
in a way recognisable to those who do not
eat sleep and breathe,
the lives he parodies.

fluent in artistic flare
a hen becomes a skylark or a bluebird with a song
Skylines become two worlds stitched together,

But if he cannot see beyond the coastline of his eyelid
the sun will set too soon upon his visions of grandeur
the clouds won’t make for castles,
and the people become cattle,
plump and market ready,
to be slain

in his own quest for a voice,
he silences his prey.

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