I am not a storyteller, I am a poet armed with a sword, a rose, a word.
I paint pictures for everyone to see, but I never let you see too deep inside me.
I know very little about the world outside my door; I know only what others
Tell me; what I see and perceive has nothing to do with your world
And I am not alone in my estimations. Others before me have looked
And gone to the edges to see a vision as clear and close to mine.
If I told you their names you would recognize them and gasp "how dare he
Compare himself to ones such as these?"

When a poet looks inside himself he sees only darkness and shadows.
The only light available is the light from above and you may take that any way
You like because I am not here to set you or anyone else straight about anything
Relevant in today's concrete, industrial society.
With fame and fortune comes ruin; after that follows mere disaster.
The master, the icon, the visionary, the teacher, the student, they all are
On the same path, and that path leads to the same destination all men
Arrive at eventually in time.

I may as well tell you these things plainly because I cannot find any other
Way to say them now that summer is over and autumn has begun to tear us
Asunder with torrential rain and snow. Many will say "look, there is the lightning,
But where is the thunder?" Many will talk, saying nothing. On and on
They talk forever and when they are finished somebody drops them in a grave.
I am not going to stay here and tell you any more lies. My lines are finished.
The time has come for you to speak and you may not live to tell the story.