Correspondence of the Poets

Poets come and poets go
leaving what, I do not know
words are never lasting things
a bit like kisses, hugs or stings

As insects from the hour of birth
in this sandbox we call Earth
they falter on the crumbling slopes
lose and find and dash their hopes

It is a hopeless occupation
way above a mortal’s station
to try and find some proper sense
in complicated innocence

A world must always be less grand
when built with little grains of sand
whilst all the worlds a poet makes
are riddled with their own mistakes

Still bound by limits yet unknown
both claim the Cosmos as their own
certain in each small endeavour
what instinct built can last forever

So comes the cat to have a piss
there never was a rain like this
vast golden rivers over flow
the secret worlds they think they know.