Poets Of The Many Poem by James McLain

The poets of the many feelings are of all, each rung,
of life and teach positions.
Though if poets they must some what seem to be.
Will you see the world for what it is, subconsciously.

Just one of many loves,
and love of life and lives which often lost, are never sung.
When sung as songs,
and like the west the wind that moved the dying world.

Where it reaches I am you and you are part of many.
When I move, you play my harp and wash away the flood,
of tears the sand none own, the method of one's madness.

Our countries are our songs, it is my song,
and the east,
from whence we came, the wind it blew that fateful day.
Which if we can't, if they will not if not it changes possible, but.
The sky where I am as a cloud, feels soft as all seas,
to shine with due respect to color of the ocean free.

And in all the fields the flash of silver make it never gray.
I made your answer of the heart for the entire world to see.
Your my art and sweetly so monotonous you hum my meaning.
In your ear then never as for me it never changes,
It can not withstand the parting of, because of my own part.

You thought to all and all to thought of you the one sufficiently.
Your's are the treasures of the clouds,
each and every where, my from youth old years.
As rain turns into snow and small but strong the center,
and like the orphaned child, crying with, without the arm.
Or here like some whom taste the wine when spirits do just fine.
Of to many there are mines where you are hidden I am found.