The Unfortunate Poet

He’s a poet in a war, they said, such sensibility
He has the sight, such power, the true nobility
You can sense in him a sense so fine,
In his songs a choral music so divine,
And sometimes he tells a story, or not,
Have you ever seen the like?

We repine, they said, It is sad, he is wasted
Sitting out that horrid little war; He’s never tasted
The beauty we hoard here, and expend, but still
Such beauty he holds in him; If he has his fill
Of days such as ours, his music shall bleed into the sky,
His poems shall fill our afternoons in swirls and eddies.

And he was brought to the city, he was captured
By his lovers, he was held like a jewel, caged like a bird,
Taught beauty, Shown works of art, and beautiful things,
By daughters of wise men, and sons of kings.
And he strung together meaningless words,
His melodies were bitter airs with the flavor of salt.