My pen exists
Between heaven and hell
And feels the pull of both.
Swinging like an undecided compass,
I never know what mood
Will govern it.
Which polar end will win today?
It taps the page like a metronome
And I wait with bated breath.

Their poetry imperceptibly
slipped
into the first person.

Neither of them noticed
when
'he and she'
became
'you and me'

Let's analyse that, shall we?

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

No such thing as 'cannibal'
there are only hungry creatures-
and a potential meal riding the bus.