The Poet

Before the Poet, paper blank,
His ink pen still and drying,
Brows of sweat, he sits bemused,
To lay words to his writing.

But within his thought is blackness,
No vision comes his way,
And anger swells within his mind,
For he knows not what to say.

Footsteps pace from wall to wall,
In an attempt to pierce the veil,
But like an endless mist, he sees no path,
And his effort’s to no avail.

Hours pass as time goes on,
With still no inspiration,
So upon his paper, the Poet sleeps,
Defeated by exhaustion.

Subconscious thoughts prevails him,
And the answer is clear to see,
But within this world his body is bound,
And he is unable to get free.

Awake he must, to write these words,
And he struggles against the chain,
But the chain is strong and holds him down,
And he knows his fight is in vain.

Then once again in Limbo’s arm,
The words before him missing,
Though he feels no weight within the black,
He knows his body is rising.

Awakened by the morning sun,
That reflected off the paper,
He saw those words within his mind,
And he realized he remembered.

In a panicked rush, he grasped his pen,
Across the paper ink was flowing,
And when complete a poem laid,
For all to read his writing.

The poem that he came to write,
Was of a troubled Trouvere,
Who knew not what to write about,
So wrote of his despair.