Saturday, 16 June 2012

I Loved a Poet



Where is death when you need it?
Where does it hide from our nightly cries?
He spares our necks when we prey his sword is fit,
And when we reach for sunshine, the sun itself dies,

He sat to his wooden old desk in light so dim,
He picked up his pen and rested his tensed chin
His elbow resting on spots of ink that turned grim,
Night is carving into the metal of his mind,
And paleness of his skin.
He gazed outward to the world and inside
Into his own land of robot-shaped dreams
And in his eagle heart, even in a desert's tide
He's quick to fly, and rare to return,
He'd be mad to ever return willingly to screams.
He watched a distant imaginary fire burn,
And with it his soul caught the light,
A true poet his soul can be when forced to yearn,
And like every other poet it's never clear,
Until a pen ignites the letters strong and bright.
So he kisses his pen and rolls his tear,
He waves his heart and catches every sign
Of life, strolling thought, stray dream, raging fear,
And it pulls him from ocean to sky to land ever so silently,
He writes a line following it down by another line.
They flow down his throat until he's drunk, an army violently
Reaches for a piece of his racing mind,
And he strangles it by the ink defacing white naturally,
It holds his soul up, above, higher,
So he can never see what he's left behind.
He always wins the race and the soldiers retire,
His chin relaxes and his pen relaxes,
And the paper will forever endure his poetry's fire,
The trees outside his window howl one last time,
And then they too succumb to his axes.
So he seals the end of his victorious rhyme,
On the envelope he writes a name,
And though to actually open it would be sublime,
The name on the envelope was never mine,
And if it were, nothing would ever be the same.

Where is death when you need it?
Where does it hide from our nightly cries?
I loved a poet but whatever his hands writ,
Was everyone else's, it never once my love implies.

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