A Budding Poet

A tribute to Oscar Wilde.

Perhaps the epitome of my poetry, 
Appears too haughty and ambiguous,
Whilst avering that I do not attempt, 
To confound or am I so disingenuous.

Consequently, my gist is ne'er trivial,
As my logic is rational and propitious,
With the context of my poems vivid, 
In endeavours of stanzas ingenious.

They are astray in our imagination, 
As manifest'd in artistic expression,
That we indulge as poets to assent, 
With the simple notion of assertion.

That spirit efficacious and induc'd, 
By the magnitude of magnanimity, 
With a poet's sentience enraptur'd, 
In the search for eternal sagacity.

Clandestine and unique fortuitously, 
Amidst such a esprit too interminable,
Interspers'd gradually and eventually, 
In the mundane voices too intangible.

We impart with our sedulous poems, 
Upon the reciter necessary refinement,
And we inculcate always when suitable, 
Whilst not imposing a trite confinement.

Quixotic and pensive stupefying those, 
Who intrepidly defy when too recalcitrant,
The debonair obligation to be punctilious, 
For democracy is not a subtle penchant.

Perhaps, my stanzas of poetry appear, 
Prosaic and maladroit for the gentry,
Attesting to the critics of the world, 
I was quondamly, a budding poet.