Thursday, April 7, 2011

Wise Man: Part I

I used to be a writer,
My pen ambitious waiting for the kill
A perfect story revealing
Secrets we have no excuse for telling
Covering the landscape with paper,
Life like print is colorblind,
Beautiful only until the ink dries
As I lay a world fell,
With another to take it's place
On my very whim, death and rebirth
Dimensions of fiction can not betray
That which has already infected our minds,
At which times my pen cried,
Tears that have not been shed for years,
And as those words fell out,
My cold dead fingers were put to rest
I stared you straight in the eyes,
And became enveloped by a familar face
The reason for writing is simplistic
To which emotions do your words endow?


Poem 11

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