An Amateur, A So Called Poet

The aesthetic egoist since his very toy hood, Sucking beauty through his veins for the thirsty heart, And the naughty heart filled in with an amateur art, Of showering beauty, since his very boyhood, To his body and soul, the heart a victim of a genetic love, The arteries were blocked with deposits of beauty, The heart then trembled was reminded of his duty, Though couldn't fly high like a beautiful dove, Sewn few plants in a garden on the earth, The sprung flowers didn't have much worth. The friends watched the flowers and many admired, Many gave him way to rise to a height, Touching written climax and getting some bright, To spring few flowers he was kindly inspired, He sprung a few, only a few, truly beautiful flowers, Most of the flowers were dried and decayed, His tunes of the beauty have been now outplayed, Slipping from his hands wet winds and the showers, The amateur drying down to his lovely mother earth, Leaving behind whatever is his worth!