The minstrel is the ebb and flow of passion
Coloring the air with his devotion to emotion
The poet takes his color from all around
Sometimes all, or everything but sound
For every note, there is a color of ink
Both can make you feel, both can make you think
But the minstrel of all loves himself the most, and the music a little more
The poet lives for love, for the entire pallet, from truth to lore.
Ah, but it is the way for the musician to be adored
The poets are for the muses, the gift, for a place in their hoard
The minstrels mark of sensation, received and henceforth given
Muse’s give and take from poets, their all, their hell and heaven.
What will love you more, the mouth or heart of creation?
But who would risk the ills, of a muse’s cursing suspicion?
