I wrote this around 1986, I guess. I knew some real poets and saw some lightning.
Poets are places where lightning strikes,
not once, but again and again.
Targets for luminous bolts of fire,
knowing each breath could be their last,
they fasten words of hope and truth
to pages which burn with desire
to touch someone with beauty and vision,
to exorcise pain of the vast cataclysm,
to live in the limitless ocean of their dreams.
The true poets I have known have shown me
that all that endures is consumed.
Followed, themselves, by pillars of flame,
they burn into timeless beams.