...Poets are fringe
Loose ends on a skirt
Not to be moved
For fear of what they may expose
So they are cut from society...

They called him a poet
Displaying ignorance in insults
Twitching hands lay by his sides
Fretful of what they may lose
Yet they didn’t seem likely to let go
His mouth remained calm
Transfixed on his thoughts
I hated the need
To be entwined in them
To dust the dirt from his brown eyes
To be the poetry that he sees
To watch tracks stem from his irises
...So wild with devotion...
To be the new memory caught in his fingers
To move him
The way he moved me
But this is all I will ever have of him
A morsel to forever feed from
For my hands were as full as his


All I could give him was a pen
To replace the one that was taken by them


“They call you a poet” I said
“They call me a one too”