Another poet wrote a poem today,
and it was riveting.
Each word, an intricately carved figure into an ornate pattern.
Every syllable, singing the beloved song I never thought I'd hear again.
My soul transcribed onto paper.
I could feel my heart taking flight with each rhyme,
soaring by the end of the poem.
Of course, myself being a fellow poet,
these thoughts remained in their place of origin, though unwillingly.
How could I, a fellow poet, succumb to his talent?
Did he recognize that glimmer in my eyes,
the sparkle of childlike admiration?
Or, upon looking into my eyes, could he see fire,
the burning heat of my jealousy?
I loathed him; how was it that he was so moved with talent,
and I, a piteous poet who failed to move so much as a single soul?
He took to poetry as a bird takes to the sky,
so beautiful as to leave my stomach in knots
and my head reeling.
The strangest sensation came over me,
when I read the other poet's work.
A sensation of simultaneous beauty and disgust,
a deep longing and loving, intertwined with
the greatest disdain.
I handed back the paper,
conflicted by my own inner turmoil.
These darkest of feelings remained where they first lie,
never to be known by another poet.