I read the poet's words,
Shuttered to think of life in that vein,
Felt to myself, the utter turmoil,
Which has laden his pen in solemn refrain.
His horror… out of the depths,
The roses… the thorns,
All burden him endlessly,
Has ever a soul been so torn?
Shimmering memories cut into the heart,
Like shattered shards of glass into skin,
Terrible wounds flow in every stroke,
Made by the poet's tormented pen.
The poet is rendered no mercy,
As if by design, he falls upon the sword,
The bludgeoning of his heart,
Stained in every word.
Those around him think is it depression?
Maybe?
Or has insanity begun to breed?
May be... or completely defeated, weak and frail,
Troubled soul, with broken heart upon his sleeve.
If heart it be, then shattered, not broken,
I read annihilation completely rendered,
Each line… inked by a lost pen,
To which this defeated exile has surrendered.
He treads the dark side of truth,
A mind surrendered from devoted belief,
That words spoken are true, that God smiles,
Love is real, the truth will set you free.
I lament for the poet,
Surrendered soul and mind,
Cursed with emotional aptitude,
His heart disbelieves his eyes.
I know the poet is not the first,
Nor will he be the last,
To move about in shadows,
Crushed in the present by the past.
A romantic…the poet professes not,
Yet his pen betrays him,
Which details how the walls fell,
And left him trapped within.
Ah, but the name of the poet,
I know it not, he did not sign his work,
As if he is now no one,
A faceless expression: alone in his hurt.
