Poets are promiscuous among emotions.
One moment we lay with sadness,
the next with joy!
We stroll the city streets
with the shadow of pride at our side,
only hours later, to bed with humbleness.
Poets know no end among men.
The different guises we don,
grant us eternity!
The masks we parade
hide our trueness to reality.
We remain riddles, with mystery our shroud.
©Feb 20, 1993 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic