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
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