hose words enchanting syllables,
those lines a cadence unrivaled,
those paragraphs sublime surreal,
whose poetry that shines eternal.
But of what qualities do we slate,
to pronounce the title of a great,
a poet's stylings his skillful tongue,
or his heart's emotional expunge.
Though I aspire to the mantle great,
I have ways to go before that treat,
but as my humble vision sweeps,
I do see a pattern to carefully keep.
For a poet to be called a great,
certain skills must the poet consecrate,
the mastery of rhythm rhyme and metres,
the true-felt feeling of a heart that matures.
A poet's pen is heaven sent,
only if his word does dazzles the sense,
skillfully rhyming in metres concise,
or astounding in a proses' lyrical entice.
A poet's poem is of any worth,
only if it transports the reader in truth,
to portray a feeling wonderful and nice,
or perhaps a wounded heart in repast.
For a poet to be called great,
of these delicacies must the poet partake,
firstly to be skilled in the linguistic arts,
the second to open their heart of hearts.
But a third perhaps the divine principle,
gained by tedious study or from God's crucible,
a gift a flair the essence of parable,
inspired by muses a floodgate of perfect ideals.
To be called a poet great,
to perchance fulfill that exalted state,
the thirst perhaps is to write and write,
repeat it again and again until we get it right.
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