The Story of Poet Old

A story, here, of Poet Old Who hung a heavy heart And though the tale was then untold We’ll find a place to start Upon a house, upon a street Without a picket fence There lay a boy so incomplete That all would turn and wince He knew of love and dreamt of kiss A taste of which he longed But more did he remember this Then he could put to song He could not play the lover’s wind Though strummed the strings were he He might have been undisciplined To what a love should be To him, true love was many things But not to be defined And then a stir of heart would bring A need to fill the mind On the floor, in somber kneeling Whispers oh so eloquent Waxing all of what he’s feeling For he's sure its heaven sent He keeps the candle burning low He is the poet’s mold Formed from wax born in the flow So quick the wick is old He dies alone wrapped in his words Buried within the tongue He shouts them now although unheard Why not when he was young? “I love you life! I love you world!” He decays within the ground Where once expressions softly hurled Now poet’s peace is found A boy, to man, to death, is told In not so many lines For now the folly I’ve seen unfold And I wish to here resign! Written June 30th, 2001 © on Jun 30 2001 03:07 PM PST   0 • 1