Is poetry if it were a language, that he it's king would be?
Instead he is in it's tongue; heir of the only speaking
Forgotten son of love, flying his learning far fearlessly
Free above the fetters, taboos of society.

If poetry were his wings, the chattering birds
Would move aside the day, only to watch him glide
Dodging the clouds and red-hot comet tails,
Finding maidens forever lost in witches wells.

Speaking in brogues and childrens prattle;
Deciphering his words no easy matter
For in Morse code he steals the truth to abide
But Braille is where darkly his most thoughts hide.