Tail-end

A feather floats, I encoded, oh it was the mind of the poet.
Swirling air makes it dance,  so weightless, go at it.
Poets cannot have heavy minds.  His humongous wit
Cannot sustain.  He left it at that. A child whisked it
Blew it strongly.  It floated aflame.  It swayed aimless.
"An ultra-modern poetic thought".  People commented,
And lamented for the fire would destroy the flamable.
Sadness pervaded.  The air began to cool. Cool out,
Like Chippy woman is the poet.  No guts.  But thoughts
Always burn. A young man with blank eyes walked.
His hair and beard were musky.  Young women
Wheeled round.  Alas, he was repelling, so he is.
He was blank.  Maidens have brilliance.  He has beard.
They fondled him and said: "Poet love us.  Feed us"
They searched his curly hair to find poetry   hidden
They broke open his head.  He was taciturn.
The women were turbulent.  They came into contact.
Again a sweet romantic poem came out floating.
Creative criticism was demanded on Valentine's  day.
The poet turned lubricious.  He turned out noisy,
And the float disappeared in the sway of air.