In the eyes of society, the poet is dead, and the only one unaware is the poet himself
In the eyes of society, the poet is dead, and the only one unaware is the poet himself,
Because his vanity binds him to verses like an invisible thread, a thread of destiny,
He writes his words on the sky of memories, unaware that they are merely shadows,
Shadows of a changed reality, where poetry no longer sings as it once did.
He wears his illusions like a royal cloak, while the world passes him by,
Without stopping to hear the echo of his verses, which float like leaves in the wind,
In a world where words seem to have lost their weight, to be mere smoke,
Smoke rising from the fire of the desire to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.
The poet, with a heart full of unspoken words, carves his path through silence,
Between dream and reality, between what is and what could be,
Seeking that fragment of truth that would bring him the solace he longs for,
But the echoes remain silent, and the world continues on its way.
Looking into the mirror of time, the poet sees his reflection mingled with illusions,
Wondering if his poetic death is real or just another verse,
Another verse in an unwritten poem, in which he is the protagonist without knowing,
But even in the face of silence, he continues to write, to dream, to be.
Because, deep down, he knows that poetry is more than words,
It is a space of the soul, where thoughts and feelings meet,
A place where even death becomes just another metaphor for life,
Where the poet, even dead to others, lives forever in his verses.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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