Not Lost in France

You can’t kill

a poet !

you can only

weaken him,

but only for a

moment,

you can destroy a part

of his soul,

but not all

of it,

 he’s keeping enough

of it

safe and sound

 for when he wakes.

Well past the

midnight hour,

when

others dream,

he’ll be watching

and waiting

for the words

to fall

like so many

raindrops

from the clouds

that obscured

his

light.

Then, when all

is still,

they’ll pounce

upon you

like

a savage animal

ready to rip the tears

from your

eyes ,

to make

your heart

understand the

joys and the pains,

make your thoughts linger,

if only for a second,

in your deepest

memories

recalling the smiles

of your childhood,

when you had dreams,

before they took your

illusions,

trampling them,

one by one

and

leaving the empty

shell

that they left you, 

to fill.

The poet is only

sleeping.

He’s keeping his dreams

and a

few illusions,

knowing

he’s not there

to hurt you

and

he’s not waiting

for the

kill.

 

So she’s gone

and the room

is bare to the bone,

a few

dusty black and white

photographs

hide between

the pages

of the book

he’d never write.

She’s gone

and the last

remnants

of so many words

whispered

on winter nights

join the pile

on the

funeral pyre.

So she’s gone

and the sun

filters the dust

that had gathered

on  the fragments

of fragile wings

from another life

and

other dreams.

So she’s gone

and the light

is dimming

as night

invades

the room

with the shadow

of a furtive cat.

The streetlamps

light

the path

he slowly treads,

the one,

he 

knows,

he has to

follow.