The Poet

The autumn promises an escape for him
Where the isles shed breezes and beg to begin
A novel, a dream, a wish to break free
From the souls
That walk bare
And speak softly.
He heard them for years, he embroidered the pain
The stories they whispered, he sewed them in vain
Over fabrics of paper he signs off his name
Dedicating the stitches to those who praise
He covers them fully
Comforting their longing
Fading away in each patch he sears.
Until his mind becomes tailored around
Only miseries,
So profound,
So tacked by their boundaries and fears
That whats left of his heart are scraps
And watery threads trailing under his eyes–
A permanent stream of tears.
May he trace his past,
May his travels last,
May his journey come to show;
That his heart still beats
And theres still time to weave
A heart she thought him to know.

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About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Love, Life and Other Trivial Pursuits, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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