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 poets dream,
but Mad Blake dismissed their hollow breath,
as a pinch of salt in history’s seam.

The Flower-Builders’ blooms were fair,
as the Flower Builders toil and weave,
yet lacked the wildness of despair,
while secrets in the shadows breathe.

The New-Physicians 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 singer’s voice, a trembling plea,
without the soul to comprehend,
came as foreboding whispers, hauntingly,

as his song of pain, a Fowler’s net.
Yet the singer’s song, both sweet and grim,
as a chase of words, he could not forget,
led Mad Blake through shadows, deep and dim.

She came not when the roses bloomed,
Yet her voice foreboding, called his name,
and lingered in the twilight’s gloom,
and yet, the pains within remained.

Noon blazed upon a field of red,
the poet, questing still, endured,
but she, the muse, came not, they said,
though of truth, of love, her song ensured…

Still, Mad Blake waited in the fading light,
Mad Blake, the rebel, fierce and free,
and met her at the fall of night.
She sang of worlds we seldom see.

She whispered truths never seen before,
a 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 not the prize we seek,
but courage is found when words are weak,
and though he never found his fame,
in silence, Blake became his name.