Where is a poet's hiding place?

I once sat with a friend at a drink Bar
His topical discussions were fascinating
His ideas were shining like a morning star
Soon I noticed a gradual change in his feelings
I saw incoherence in word articulation
The flow of ideas went so unsteady
I saw happiness slowly departing the brilliant face
I saw him retreating to a dark emotional corner
Though physically present I lost in touch with him
"Where in himself is the guy hiding?" I asked myself

First I thought he swallowed himself
I checked him in the stomach.
But no way I couldn't find him there, My friend was not an idiot. Nor he was selfish
I took up my torch to go into a deeper search
"Open your mouth." I instructed. But he was not a coward. He was not there either
Then I went crashing into the gates of his head
Fortunately I found him there
I saw him parking himself in the garden of truth
I saw him watching stars in the sky of his mind
I saw him picking fruits from the tree of wisdom
AAh He was a poet. He was not an ordinary person