The Ballad of The Poet
Photo credit: Alvimann from morguefile.com
I
Oh what a life had he!
Soaring like a bird,
In the clear blue skies,
Looking down upon a world,
The chaos and outcries,
And he yelled to them, watch me!
I’m free!!
The Poet, he was the king,
Of the fortress that he built,
Of the songs that he did sing,
Of feelings that he felt,
Of a road that was as straight as can be.
Then one day,
His doors gave way,
And Love came singing and dancing in glee.
II
The Poet danced a merry dance,
And sang a merry tune,
His heart opened up to romance,
And he fell flat on his face, for June.
Oh what a girl was she!
Bringing light to the darkest corners,
Energetic, vibrant and graceful,
She was the queen of all the manors,
Bringing love to the doleful,
She was the dream that men did see,
In the chaos, the clarity.
She fell in love,
With The Poet, and his songs,
He thought she was sent from above,
In his hand, hers did belong,
In each other, they found sanctity.
III
Oh what a life had they!
Love coexisted with friendship,
Understanding each other with perfection,
Passionate was their kinship,
Such passion, as is difficult to mention.
Life let them have their way,
Let them enjoy the moment’s sway.
The Poet was happy with what fate had dealt him,
Overjoyed by the love that now filled him,
June was the best thing to come his way.
But who can tell,
What tomorrow will bring?
Will it be a knell,
Or more songs to sing?
As the world turns to face another day,
And the shining joy makes it look away.
IV
His eyes, they moisten,
As The Poet tells the story,
Of a time forgotten,
Of feelings, so bleary,
Oh what a time that was!
When he could hold her close,
Watch her eyes as they spoke,
In his arms, she’d repose,
Awake at the midnight stroke,
And together, make time itself pause.
Awaken next day,
Watch her sleeping eyes,
Close to her, he lay,
Wanting to hold her till he dies,
Wanting to live out life for her cause,
But dreams, they are made of straws.
V
Oh what a storm was that!
Shattering windows,
Unhinging doors,
Breaking boughs,
Raking up the floors,
Shaking the base on which they sat,
Leaving darkness, where light be at.
The Poet surveyed the wreckage,
With cool, calm eyes,
With a steady mind did he gauge,
The rift in his trust, her lies.
His legs gave way,
He felt his body sway,
He succumbed to the fray,
His senses gave way,
To darkness, where light be at.
VI
Years, they have passed,
Dreams, they have stilled,
But the memories, they last,
As the spirit is killed,
They last till the dying day.
The poet, all alone,
Seeks a hand to hold,
Seeks those eyes that shone,
But light seems rarer than gold,
Despair keeps pumping away.
If only his love she knew,
Maybe she would have stayed,
Pain clouded his view,
He wished she would cradle his head,
A broken heart is an awful way,
To waste away, day after day.
