PoetsThere lives a poet in each soul, In those who think. Tank of it deluge, And finds its path on its own, It may take the form of words, Or sufferings, Or even tears.
Each of which strings together, Takes the shape of a festoon. Though not appealing, It finds its place, Around the neck, round the clock.
Stays with those who hold it, And leaves those, with guts. Of them all, words are the deadliest, For it reaches all, For it reaches the one with heart, And makes them encounter that path, For a minuscule part of their life.
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