The stolen poem

A poet may live through,
That his words are only heard,
In the confines of his own.
Little can he gain in words,
For the words are his heart,
And her it was spoken to
Never struck a chord.

And then, another comes along,
To steal those words of old,
A little stop here, a word there,
In the theatre of life,
The game always is for the showman.

Little words are twisted,
The feelings laid bare,
For that, which was a beauty,
Is now crass enough to share.
Them that never got the words,
Now can smile,
For the song is now gaudy enough,
To engage the mortal soul awhile.
The colors are washed out,
The smell serene nomore,
The words taste insipid,
The beauty worn out.

For the mortal, beauty is not
The pain in the heart,
But for words that spell their name.
For the poet, beauty is not
The understanding of all,
But for the heart and nary a game.

But the poet turns,
Without a smile or tear,
His story is stolen,
As was his heart.