Pretty flames

There are no poet heroes

At least as far as I can know

In whom pure reason grows.

There are no philosopher kings

In this age when insanity sings

To the bell's off-key ring.

I wonder what tomorrow holds

For those who feel the heavy load

And wish someday to grow old?

I thought I could write the end

But now I'm tempted to spend

A little ink urging us to think again.

Here am I anxiously waiting

For that flash of inspiration

That comes from God or Satan.

What if the spark refuses to start

My mind turns down the part

And I find that I have lost the art?

Unless I recover the power of rhyme

And reason reigns at least a time

The truce ends; justice is blind.

But then I think, words are empty

Chaos is what destiny sent me

And I should just breathe deeply.

I wonder how the world would name

The first responder they send

To write about the pretty flames.