Poets Are Prophets Of Portent Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

He expected a new spring to stay, prolong
Turn back, folds lines deepening foretold.
Flights of winter warmed all summer long,
When he smiled, and autumn turned to gold;

You see, poets are prophets of portent.
They envision all that might befall
Of dark events, they've some foreknowledge.
They've antifreeze kisses methanol.

Their cruel words bite lustfully hard.
They draw blood in a demonic dream.
Ask you to be heavenly ignored
Remain stable with low self-esteem.

Whisper platitudes while you grow old.
Tired, you lose your own, wilful voice.
And somehow forget how to be bold.
Neath two wings equally, equipoise.

They expect pearls in every mussel
And then some ten thousand grains of sand
Stand still, her hair to ghostly tousle
Worn long, a gold fleece salt-sea fanned.