Why the Poet Writes

When a poet writes, the past has been opened, pried at with crowbars and curiosity He reaches, pulling strands of words and metaphors from cracked corners of faint memories. Ink pouring from old feather tips. With lights up all night long, he forgets life is time darkness circles around his eyes creating an umbra of unwanted sleep Rhythms grow rapidly, beats pounding, head throbbing. He is one with the background music He has loved to much, pouring light and sudden gaiety onto pages of stripped truth he has left his heart on paper. but a poet does not miss what’s gone, for the book is not yet done. They don’t know how it ends Or even how it started Hugging the darkness of night An un-sober mind spins for when a poet writes, the past has been opened and the present stops.