I looked into the dying man’s eyes,
And gently asked him why,
Our lives are filled with pain,
And struggle,
And fear of what may come.
He smiled and began to cry,
And haltingly came his reply;
“Only the poet knows.”

Who has the time to consider
A life that is flying by,
And who has the notion in his restless day,
To sit and wonder why?
Our days are consumed, it seems,
With the will that we have to survive,
The daily battle that we must fight,
 To somehow stay alive.
In answer to your question, my friend;
Only the poet knows.

For the poet longs for more,
Than food to fill his gut.
He may ask what it means to love,
How it feels to lose a brother’s trust.
The poet may use his pen as an extension,
Of his mind traveling in another dimension.
He may mourn in words his loss,
Or describe Jesus’ death on the cross.
The poet shares his lust with the reader,
And may rave like a madman with a fever.
But always,
The poet thinks,
And considers,
And dreams,
And lays his musings to paper.

So, when the traveler asks you why,
Tell him,
Only the poet knows.