Poetic minds only reside within the bodies of those who have stared death in his cold empty sockets and invited him with open arms only to be told they aren't worthy to receive the gift he is so revered for giving.
Poetic minds only belong to those who are willing to wield the Scyth of the Reaper with their own painfully mortal hands.
One's mind may only be refered to as poetic once the vessel it occupies acts only with the goal of earning its own parishment and of its own accord.
The mind of a poet is a mind attached to a soul that has long since decayed, left without and any true will to live on.
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