[Personally I think it's my best poem ever. Enjoy!]

For a poet,
The beauty of the rainbow lies not in its colors,
For a poet,
Its beauty lies in the invisible dance between the breeze and light,
Which forms its shape and gives birth to its hues in misty sights.

For a poet,
The city is a jungle of wild, tall structures,
Beasts among smaller suburb rodents,
City windows: the butterflies upon a building's bark,
At night, dancing fireflies light the prairie roads.

A poet sees not the sun and moon,
But the sky's irises;
One golden, the other a silvery hue.
The ocean, for the poet, is not merely water,
But a mirror map for the sky,
Upon which it tracks its flying birds and cotton clouds.

For a poet,
The pen is not a writing utensil, nor is paper just a sheet,
He respects his companions,
Pen, Pencil and ink, inanimate to them, full of life to him,
For they create weaving art upon a fragile parchment map;
Treasures, the meaning of its contents,
Golden, the passion of its thoughts.

For a poet,
The eyes of his lover:
A portal into her dreams and lies,
Love is not an emotion,
But an incantation of thoughts and actions,
Capable of creating life and fending death,
And still, can bring the world, hell and the heavens down to their knees.

A poet understands the basic law,
Overseen by many, understood by few,
That the beauty of a person,
Is not what one sees with the eyes,
But what one has not yet seen without them,
For a blind can see better than an eagle,
And see deeper than the oceans' basins...
The beauty of the world, however,
Lies on the raw nature beheld by the eyes,
Not the product of it,
Which one never sees,
Until it has ceased being beautiful.
Its sound but a whisper,
Heard by deaf-kindred spirits,
Yet drowned for the rest among ignorant interests and strenuous greed.

A poet often asks,
Why is a picture worth a thousand words?
When, for him, a word can be a whole new world,
Undiscovered, untouched,
Virgin to thoughts and arguments,
A world capable of filling a thousand picture-frames,
And then some.

For a poet,
Time is not time,
But the testament and companion to his didactic mind,
And when the time comes,
That of the poet,
He bids no farewells nor goodbyes,
For he knows he is immortal,
In thought, art, song and paper,
For his greatest accomplishments and defeats,
The life he lived and didn't live,
Can be summed in just a couple of words;
Letters upon sentence upon prose,
Inked by pens and absorbed by sheets,
Immortal for generations to come.

-Hect' PdL