THE POET
When the dawn goes
down to the Day
Ascends the Sun to rinse
The earth's tray
Having survived a night
Mortals set to pray
Flora revives, buds smile
To muse they sway
In a lonely, forgotten
Gaunt cottage far away
A poet lost on his desk
As wreaths on a grave
On paper, his words lay
While the world
Picks morsel,
He shoves
Hunger at bay
Weaving verse
Keeps him gay
Dawn to the day
Then dusk, be it may
A poet remains a poet
Whatever you say.
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Thanks for your invaluable perception.