Of Poets, Parasites and You

I am the word that grasps your soul and twists An iota of sorrow or joy into your subconscious I speak truth and you interpret, absorb or reject Your silver clad universe is not my cloud filled sky Your autumn soft earth is not the path that I tread But your suffering is the pain that aches my heart I am the word You are the faceless one that takes my offspring And delivers it prematurely stillborn to the world That lays its corps in some far off barren desert Dances a dance of pleasure on its alabaster bones Chants a song of praise as nectar becomes carrion Then rinse your palate with the gall of the unjust You are the faceless one You are my rock that lifts me above the raging sea That wraps me in your cloak on chill winter nights You go barefoot to enable me to walk stony trails That lead to high places I have not even envisaged You welcome me to exalted company without gain Then lay me on a bed of lavender scented words You are my rock