The poet: A poem 

I know poetry is not long-lasting fire, but short-lived words 

It is only an invention forgotten; takes up a moment’s third 

It is not imagery like a film, not thorough as a popular tome 

Not an audio that can be rewound; it is only moments-worn 

Does this make the poet sad? His impotence stares at his ego 

Does the humility of his creation, the raves and plaudits forego?

He may be buried in his own words, but his fate is fait accompli 

There is a phrase for his phase that sums with ‘what is meant to be’ 

What does a poet celebrate? His poetry is like a solitary Christmas 

He can’t even remember it beyond his own drunken party that was 

He could have been a fascinating line, but never a catchphrase 

His poetry is no inflection, it ends abruptly and is always erased 

But does he think he have a duty? Like an angel on his pages 

Or does he deign to negate sentiment by criticism and sledges? 

Would he stick to making his lyrics appear cheerful and whole? 

Can he breed other poets through the poetry living in his soul?