I am the poet
I have been whispering obscurities in dark corners for many years now
And I like it that way

I am dark and brooding
Obscure and abstract
And I like it that way

I am the craftsman
Allowing language to consume me
And I like it that way

I am impervious to permanence
And tire of fence sitting
And I like it that way

I am living the rhythm of symbolism so as to
Pawn it as wisdom
And I like it that way

I am the tactician step, step, stepping through
Through the abstract and on to you
And I like it that way

Having found that symbolism rhythm
I am weaning my way off words

Having found my addiction
And now feeling the friction

My addiction isn’t to words though
It’s to whispers

Through the journey from abstraction
And into the rhythm of this reality is
Where I consumed all of it
I even drank down the first person
With a perspective shift and a lime twist for garnish

Now it’s time to inspire
Let's put on our costumes because
Reconciling truths
Aggravates liars

And I like it that way

Her face is like a poem
Her heart a willow tree
Bending softly in the moonglow
Beating always for me
She’s the bell in my distance
The hearth at home
With me everywhere
Even when I’m alone
In the desert she is water
She’s the forest and the trees
Everything she is to me
Everything

What breath he borrows from your question
That he might live between your punctuation
And Death, in its mercy, avert its gaze
A resurrective reprieve if only for as long as to say
He had a predilection for cold sores
For pushing harder than was required and giving more than was needed
When he appears to me, he shares a knowing glance
A promise of explanation to the sudden unanswerable absence
As he moves to speak, and share the elusive truth
I awake
I always wake

The rosebud wind tickles my nose
Or maybe it is my allergies
I have missed the touch of spring

The severed canyon split-snakes out beyond my view
Like a hazardous sidewalk God has yet to fix
It would be a nuisance to the strong strided
Or a beautiful scar to the like minded