The Poet

The Poet

The Poet sat silently in the corner of the dim coffee shoppe
Who was she? What was she writing?
Mystery and curiosity crawled up my spine
As I solemnly walked closer to discover...

I peaked over her slender and pale shoulder
Her silver-stained blue eyes looked up threateningly
but she continued to pour her soul onto the page
the pen had taken over, her mind would not stop
Living everything faster than it could be scribbled down
the words laid down for her like lovers in the night
Such Envy, I felt, as The Poet slipped out her heart
Upon the page, bleeding all over its crisp pureness
She wrote of her love slain, a gift and a holy gain
that healed her time and time again,
ever breaking, never bitter...

The sheet's blankness soon filled with undying grace
I felt shivers in my knees just watching her wrench
every rip and tear of her damaged worries on the paper
everything went from sharp, to loose, to sharp again
a few things carried on, while others ended abruptly
especially for the last sentence, it all became. Dark.
Then, just as quietly and discreetly as it all began...
The Poet put down her pen. and all was still.

For once she reached the bottom of the page,
this journey, as all others, was over.
a weakness overthrew her eyes, a sigh
for there was nothing left to say or write
every ache upon her breast, lifted
as she signed her name at the bottom
lacy scripture spelled out a name, L-a-y-L-a
And I watched as the Y's graceful tail drifted off the edge...
A teardrop bled through the thin sheet,
and all was lost one again in oblivion.