Ancient Robes

.... "whose points the poet has ever crowned..."

How to say the seed of curse
is soil of the happy times
and food of the joyful rhymes
which do not ever seem to last and
even seldom come to pass
that for want of neutral peace of nothing no at all
do I hold my chest at bay
and flee its lofty feels away
and speak then not of love’s renown
whose points the poet has ever crowned his head and filled
it full of lies of love
and eyes of wool to
blind me not by love but hate,
or something quieter but no less great
which dons its ancient robes and waits
and waits