The Poet

The spirit of a dead poet...
it drips into me like sweat.
Seems so self-invoked;
perfection being provoked.

A beautiful torment.
The stroll of a sweet scent.
It strokes my senses.
Hence, this perfect sentences.

A tantalising torture.
Beauty being nurtured.
Words weave around my brain.
The persistence of a poetic rain.

Conjuring armed with supremacy...
Poetry as a desperate delicacy.
A spirit, spiritually sacred;
the quality breath of the dead.

Poetry as a sole religion.
The obstinacy of an opinion.
All I see are poetic gods.
They beckon with strong nods.