Jacob Plasky Poet Free verse

[dear Sir,]

Dear sir,
the winds of winter have
blown you towards distant harbor.
Fast. one        two         andyouwere 
gone.  but doubt   the fact  that your 
trek was consuming I do 
not.
	   You have stood  through
piercing winds, battered your chest,
ripped your legs- but your
hands were never touched-     you
placed heel to heel, slowly reaching 
stone tablets, lifted your hand to chin
and found a      good place     to   
rest.
	          The good city- will be good
to you. they will embrace your ink,
and consume every word dripped
from your pen. A mark of 
valor sketched into stone, whispered
among connecting winds- implosion 
of particles still remaining.
	                 They will then
introduce you to the world you once knew. a
world you once knew well. but it will 
not be what you recall.
      Your words will bring 
them back (a glimpse into a world 
before their time) and make them 
still fight, make them still yearn for 
the right to be free. 
       The blackened skies have 
blessed your ink with solemn 
voice. let it be heard.
the people will listen. will follow. 
	
May the four winds blow 
you safely home, Mr. Poe.  we’ll
be waiting.

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