Who am I to count the cost
of all those loves I've lost.
Each broken pen and shattered page
of the poet, who pours a life
then drinks the pain
while displaced upon the stage.
He flails about and spits his ink
into a spittoon filled with paper
then cries his sorrow
as each word seeps….into the cracks
left dripping from the core…
- of his marrow.
Who am I to count the cost
of all those loves I've lost.
Who am I to count the cost
when no lost loves
have been written for tomorrow.
of all those loves I've lost.
Each broken pen and shattered page
of the poet, who pours a life
then drinks the pain
while displaced upon the stage.
He flails about and spits his ink
into a spittoon filled with paper
then cries his sorrow
as each word seeps….into the cracks
left dripping from the core…
- of his marrow.
Who am I to count the cost
of all those loves I've lost.
Who am I to count the cost
when no lost loves
have been written for tomorrow.
A very special and evocative writing, great!
ReplyDeleteJust stunning! Full of emotion and torment. Wonderful! Thank you again Dave for moving me.
ReplyDelete