Treasure Island


The Old Poet And The Young Poet

a young poet complains
the life of a poet gets too boring
when there are no readers
or hands clapping
perhaps he is searching for
fame or honor
the old poet believes otherwise

the years of silence
bury him into oblivion
he had those hands clapping
in the passions of his youth
the summit of fame is the mountain
he worked for

he once lived on top of the hill
the naives think he is the cloud king
it is when you still love to write
even if no one is listening

that the life of the poet becomes
a perfect volcanic cone
on the day of the eruption
red magma not lava flows on the river

no one screams
there are no more hands
asking for help
no one no one
tells any story

Submitted: Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Edited: Tuesday, September 06, 2011
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