The Poet Writes to No One
A journey to write words that might live forever
The poet writes to no one. My words small fires to warm my own soul. Words bursting into flame, a brief flare driving away my personal collection of shadows and chuckling demons who taunt me from hidden cracks in my mind, only silenced by the sound of pen scratching paper. Then I find the edge of the light, the edge of what I have been seeking since I first fell in love with the smell of ink on a page, the smudges on my hand after writing page after page, head down, eyes red, time standing still. If I could write long enough I would never die, time stops for hours, my God I whisper, is it really one, have I been writing most of the night? My journey… to write words I have never written, a poem I might love as much as the process itself, but my quest unanswered, so I begin again. The poet writes for no one, but himself, driven by the need to find words that might live forever.
