Darkness courts the moon
and the day adores the sun.
But the sound of the mad bard
is a lunatic’s clamor in the wind
that only for the first second
can be heard above the crowd, and then
the howl of sifting grit on the sandy storm—
this a natural occurrence
of life’s sometimes chaotic ways. And
in all of this the poet hears only
an echo of himself, as if it is spoken
by his tongue, yet not his at all, but by every other
spirit or tongue
that has professed itself before
of love’s imagining.
the poet does indeed have a name,
but he no longer shares it,
because once he told his lover
after they became one on the sand
what he meant by his coming home,
only to have her scribble
of his renown
on a scrap of paper,
shove it in a bottle sealed with wax,
and then serve it to a wave.
Years later, he heard from an angry woman,
from a land far, far away;
she reminded him of all the pain
he had taken and given without recourse.
And she questioned
for so much time he refused to write,
to sing of naked verses and faultless rhymes,
and then suddenly,
as though he expected something he could never have,
he proclaimed— the poet remains.
This only goes to prove
the poet is everything, yet nothing;
and it shall always be that way.