By: Sultana Raza
To channel his muse, for time he fought,
With money problems, survival was rife.
Could illness consume if he'd had less strife?
Chiselled, and polished; like lace finely wrought.
Mute page hued by sensations and thought.
With a bit more gold, have a stable life,
Could've had children, a beauteous wife?
Didn't know to world, what his words brought.
Why gave up medicine for poetry's sake?
Tough choices in life, obliged to make;
Could've lost immortality that art bestows.
Subtle poems ravaged by decriers and foes;
Though early on, sly ailment smote,
His life had more meaning, because he wrote.
- The End -
Video of Keats's Creations by Sultana Raza