my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

A gust of wind
blows a lone leaf.
Without its roots
it solemnly flies;
Finding nurishment
in these new lands.
Tis a bitter sweet sentiment
for the wind
shall soon return
wisking away
the lonely leaf
and sharing it
with the world.

Every new place
brings new blessings.
A temporary warmth
that sooths
the soul.
It finds companions;
Yet truly
owns no home.
The moments are fleet
as a single heartbeat.
Another gust,
and again,
it flys alone.

Surely,
the lonesome leaf
shall one day sleep
beneath the trees,
Taking root
in a loving place
for it to keep;
Shrouded
by the stars.
Untill the day
it makes its way,
Forever
Wayward.