The old poets only wrote things they’ve grown familiar with, so,
They spun tales of love and death,
Expecting the endings to change with each new word,
Yet, to no ones surprise, the endings remained very much the same,
And love was lost to death, and death succumbs to a never-ending cycle of life.
These old poets, they knew the ways life tortured those who felt deeply,
Those who loved to a fault always lost more than they gained, so they recorded
Warnings and spread their cautions throughout history,
Yet for how much we like to think ourselves scholars and philosophers,
We failed to see the obvious; the truth buried in sonnets and tragic ballads,
Written in beautiful sunsets and heartbreaking confessionals.
Speaking truthfully, I know that you feel more for me than I you,
And know that you will never be able to capture the soul hidden behind my eyes,
For she is a spirit unhindered by the constructs of language,
She, who has read old poems and sought truth beneath their lyrics and metaphors,
And it is she who knows how to decipher them.
Those old poets, teachers to an unwilling classroom,
They have molded me into a scholar, into a philosopher,
Who sees the deeper meaning of words, and all the forms they come in.
Those old poets, oh, those old souls,
How could they have known how important their rhymes were to be?
For the words of the dead are always more powerful than that of the living.