Purpose Of The Poet Poem by John Yaws

Some people say we're foolish
To while away our time...
Dwelling on our daydreams-
And jotting down our rhyme.

What purpose serves the poet?
What profit is the sage?
Why friend, we are, have always been-
The conscience of our age.

We see beyond the commonplace-
Of how things seem to be.
Delve into the unknown depths-
We call Eternity...

What impact has our dreaming?
And what of things we write?
Our works, just like a traveler's fire...
Burn bravely in the night.

Aye, true, our words might stir a heart-
Indeed, 'tis their design...
I'll think, I'll write, while breath remains...
Within these lungs of mine.