The poets of life are found in old musty hallways
or meadows filled with fragrant young blossoms
that have turned to mud and covered their shoes
They see a dragonly fluttering its wings
between the endless dimensions of infinity
instead of leaning on the brink of death
while it encases so many souls
within a deep black coffin
They see themselves beyond the horizon
above the wild blue yonder
and have no rhyme or reason to wither
as the molds of society
twist and turn their fragile spines
into spaghetti
We are one
We are a totality of the fourth dimension
All the world is a stage
and we are the poets of life