It's probably always been there, this
transcendent connection, a strand
to the ethereal, a most excellent
poetic chord smothered by youth
and denied each time it rears its
beautiful head, left to writhe, waiting
the day when age and character
finally fashion the person into a poet.
What use has youth for deeper emotion
other than lust? What use the forming
of feelings into higher expressions,
so often ridiculed by the young?
Comes the day, however, when beauty
and sensitivity prevail and poetry flips
on the switch to enlightenment.