The mind of a poet never seems to rest,
For it is always questioning it's own existence.
Spending countless night searching for God,
And every day looking to decipher
The prophecies of the universe.
The mind of a poet is restless,
For the thoughts that flood the mind
Gives way to insomnia.
It will sit as a never setting moon
Never to halt the light of the sun,
So in the night
It can illuminate an ocean of ideas.
The mind of a poet
Is a maze within a labyrinth.
That has been lost to the lowest levels of hell.
A diabolic wonderland
Formed out of a conundrum of chaos
It is madness in the most aesthetic way.