I once was blind but now I see,
through the braille of my words and a strangers hand.
Am I a busker or do I just sing to myself
in that space between me and them?
Where does the music come from?
A poet is a storyteller without the cloak and sore feet,
carrying the songs in a backpack of traditions,
stuffed sausage tight with beginning scraps,
one who scrambles after the departing crowd
to pick up discarded endings,
blown flapping into corners, tattered and worn.
Some like thin and sour wine made from hate filled grapes
that sting the hands.
Leech the poison my dear companion,
or risk losing a finger to the venom…
A poets treasure is in their words
but words are capricious things….
They fly at you in the night
waking you with their need and their burning,
then carelessly fade when brought out again,
their devotion quickly turned,
sloughed off like old skin,
and the space in between me and them
empties and echoes with the loss,
the cold growing into a place of no traversing,
an icefield unsteady underfoot,
leading you on…