Pens and Pages

Of years of solitude And a final downpour, Of dreams broken And all the pieces ashore, I wondered where went that river Of all the possibilities. The pen was lying dead On a blank paper; The ink overflown Drenched my soul; I wondered if I could ever make right The massacre I left behind. I wondered if I could Ever do what's right. They told me I was a writer And that made my life.

I think of the words I would like to say Of love, of separation and your brief stay. I think of you as I walk the town On lonely evenings on the nearby lawn. You quietly follow me on a gentle morning, I turn around and you're no longer near. I write the words on a piece of paper. I write a poem; I write you a letter. You touch my hand and I cease to write, I turn around and I see you fade away. I think you're gone and I need to move on. I swallow the words, I bury it all. I tear the paper; I let you go While you stand there, mutely watching it all.