Life seems pretty
Plain with
Their faces so dull,
Arms so
Weak, the
Weight
Of the world
So heavy.

Suppose that it
Does get
Brighter beyond these
Black horizons and
Opaque words of
The mad.

Where will we be
Once the
Weight of
The world crumbles
Beneath
Mounds of
Saline tears and
Ashen hearts?

Writer extraordinaire,
Adventurer,
Wanderer of the stars.
Roamer of broken streets
And lover of the dark.

Explorer of words,
Lover of yellowing pages,
Binder of such elegant growth.
Cursive to the keen eye
And raindrops on the silky petals of a rose.

Pieces of me shine through the littlest crevices,
In the open spaces and hard-to-reach places.
Who am I to deny such poetry?

I am the wind when the tide is high
And the clouds hang like broken picture frames in the sky,
Holding on for a moment of glory
While the poet’s haunting words write me life’s little story.

I am the sun when the world has no shine,
A gleam lost within the precious folds of time.
My manner of pride surpassing
What so long ago became everlasting,
For the days have become nothing more than an actor’s last scene.

I am thunder rippling in the dark
As the raindrops wound the already fragile hearts.
Sorrow falling upon the world like a blanket,
Wondering how much longer our broken souls can take it.

I am lost when the storm shatters the world,
Breaking the glass as the space between the lines unfurl.
And wandering like no man wanders before,
Hanging from the busted seam brought by greed, hunger, and war,
Never allowing their dreams to wash upon a dusty shore.

I am lightning, vibrant and ready to be a guide in the night,
Ready to end the darkness with a future promising and bright.
I am lightning, leading them through the storm
And abolishing the suffering that our hearts and our souls transformed.
I am lightning amongst thunder, ironically quiet and frightened,
Yet, they forget that their darkness too deserves to be lightened.

I’d imagine if ever found,
He’d hang around
A ****** pub
Right smack in the middle
Of town.

Perhaps he’d nearly burn
Off his throat from
Straight tonic and
Gin or
Maybe he’d have a
Conversation with
The raven; the
Sardonic chant of
“Nevermore” echoing the
Walls as he’d drunkenly
Hit the floor.

Stifling an intoxicated
Giggle or
Two, I’d ask him
What Annabel Lee would
Do once the demons
In the sea threatened
Her love or if
The evil eye was eyeing
Him from above.

I’d ask all things, up
And down and
Why a man of
His genius still
Lingered in this sleepy
Old town.

Perhaps before I
Depart, I’ll pluck a
Feather right from his
Raven’s wing and leave
Mr. Poe to bask
In the sweet
Sound of silence
As the pendulum
Swings.