The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived;
It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received.
A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in,
As we suffer right along until our solemn end.
Heroes of a future day but rarely of our own.
Most to be remembered only by ink and bone.
Our souls fulfilled when our words echo from the page.
And so we are merely losers until another Age.
~Arelo
R.L. Ohlhausen
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poets-are-losers/
