Poets <br />walking <br />on the edge <br />of madness <br />it is said <br />produce the most <br />sublime verse <br />so much more than <br />the sane man ever could <br />put in a poem or with a pen <br />write about the souls of men <br />so is it acclaim that I would seek <br />or does that mean I'm mental weak <br />if I told you that I dream of running naked in the woods <br />just like a mad and crazy poet would or that I am so elated <br />at the colour of a simple leaf as it shines in autumn's golden light so brief <br />or that when I see a girl with golden hair that sways and twirls with a shimmering in every curl <br />my heart leaps up and shouts out loud to each and every one, to all the crowd, that I am truly proud <br />that I have it seems a gift to write and share what I see there; in that wondrous golden hair <br />and when my son says 'daddy look' and I see what he sees, without the shutters of life's closed book <br />and staring into rabbit's holes I do believe what Alice told and looking into your heart I feel what shines and what is dark <br />and typing furiously as I can I express that which I am; with thoughts of shadows creeping in <br />that blind the sight and cage the spirit that I have always been. No I have no fear of madness lurking near <br />it is an ecstasy within that speaks of dragons in their dens <br />and fairies dancing in the woods <br />but as a man that sits and looks <br />all these things I never would <br />write about or say to you <br />if I simply wanted to <br />be the fellow <br />on the bus <br />and never <br />ever make <br />a fuss.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poet-on-the-edge/
