Creation: Pain and bliss

Drowsy, he roams,

The neglected poet,

Often starved and ridiculed,

The fabled Elysian Fields,

Seen by the likes of Homer, Hesiod,

Pindar and Virgil,

The poor soul,

Sampling happiness,

Otherwise denied on

Plain earth by indifferent

Family and friends;

He watches the dancing sunflowers,

Transfixed as an ecstatic kid,

Like the misunderstood

Van Gogh, driven mad

By the general callousness,

Later declared a master by

The laughing same world!

He---the special child,

 Finds pleasures in the

Brilliant starry nights;

Wandering in the heavens

And the care-worn but

His dear earth, his real home,

The artist creates beautiful worlds,

For others, and, living in both realms,

Earth-bound, yet gaze fixed heavenwards,

The tattered maker of images divine,

In every age, through such acts,

 Recovers his sanity and

Delicate balance and gets temporarily restored,

He, like Shelley and Keats,

Prepares daily for the fresh brutal assaults,

On his senses, sensibilities,

Values, deeply-cherished,

Beliefs, profoundly held,

By an ugly, uncaring,

 Monetized world,

In search of fresh blood,

After crucifying a Plath and Wolf!