[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.
Copyright © Jacob Plasky | Year Posted 2006
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