The Poet

Phillip Brown

A poet
hunched in his chair
stares
with dreaming eyes
at the white page
the empty void
it seems is spreading
like a pure stain
to the edges
of his perception

His head leans limply
to one side
his eyes pressed shut
with a single tear
escaped beneath the lid
as he parts
the flesh that covers
his heart

and dips
his trembling pen
into the deep
pulsing inkwell
now exposed

He whispers
perhaps to begin
and each word tasted
and touched
drifts with the hours
to the ground
like loose leaves
of paper

The poem scrawled
in lines and whorls
surfaces like
a photograph developing

the black ink
glittering darkly for
a moment then seeping
into the page
like drops of blood

And when the shadows
begin to unfurl and
the stars burn slowly
in the heavens
the poet reverently
puts down his pen
and lies upon the floor
weary of the day

his ear pressed gently
listening
to the hushed movements
of the earth
and the fragile remnants
of whispered words

Through the night
poetry murmurs
from the ground
weaving
into his dreams

strands of breath
and smoke
swathing his soul
like a cocoon

and his poem
opens
within his heart
like a tiny leaf
that cleaves the branch

to breathe