Mad Blake The Poet

A rebel spirit, a soul possessed,
Mad Blake the poet, walked alone.
Mad Blake, a poet on a quest,
with a rebel’s heart, a heart of stone.

With every word, he bent the line.
He sought a truth beyond the page,
sought a truth both pure and divine.
A quest for fire unbound this sage.

The Foiled-Reaper poets sang of death,
as Foiled-Reaper’s often fail to dream,
but Mad Blake dismissed their hollow breath,
a pinch of salt in the veil’s open seam.

The Flower-Builder poets’ blooms were fair,
as the Flower Builders toil and cleave,
yet lacked the wildness of despair,
as secrets in the fertile earth failed to breathe.

The New-Physician poets mend the heart,
as New-Physicians heal with graces,
and with hidden ardor, they play their part,
but Mad Blake saw longing in their faces.

For what was broken, they could not mend.
The poet’s voice, remained a trembling plea,
without the soul to comprehend,
words came as foreboding wails, hauntingly.

For inspiration, he sought with a Fowler’s net,
Yet the words did not form, neither sweet nor grim,
as the chase of words, he heard and could not forget,
led Mad Blake through melancholy, deep and dim.

As Noon blazed hot upon a field of red,
Mad Blake the poet, questing still, endured,
but she, the muse, came not,
as other poets wrote and read,
though of truth, of love, her song ensured…

His muse, she came not when the roses bloomed,
Still he heard her echo foreboding, calling his name.
As Mad Blake lingered in the twilight’s gloom.
In hearing her words, the pains within remained.

Still, Mad Blake waited in the fading light,
Mad Blake, the rebel poet, seeking recklessly,
at odds, he at last met her in the depth of night.
For him alone, she sang of worlds we seldom see.

She whispered truths never heard before,
of a poets song, a soul, a fleeting thread,
that life’s not less, but something more,
a dance of words that the living shed…

Mad Blake no longer chases the sky,
He walks, and the rebel in his soul,
no longer seeks to know the reason why,
at peace within his poet’s role.

For truth is the crowning prize we seek.
Courage is found when words are weak,
and though he never found his fame,
in silence, Blake became his name.