The Poet’s House

i have to share this. Reads like this just inspire me. They wake something up deep inside me that burns with the desire to be heard. Can’t explain why. Don’t think it matters. i just like it.

The Vision of Poets

photo credit: Henry Whitehead Place via photopin (license) photo credit: Henry Whitehead Place via photopin(license)

The Poet’s House

He sat at the rickety old table
The sound of fingers tapping on wood…
The fire still crackling in the old wooden stove
Attempting to stand on three dilapidated metal legs
With a knotty pine branch for a fourth…

The frayed quill pen lay dormant
Atop the faded parchment…
His mind wandering through
Memories in the fog
While in this moment finding
More interest in the whiskey
He held in his hand…
Then in his poetry…

But, then, he writes more of honesty
While indulged within his intoxication…
Speaking often upon the parchment
Of a love, long since lost to his wanderings…
And his intoxications…
Yet, forever lingering within his mind…
Now filled with only remembrances
Of what once filled his pages…
Which remain at present… empty

His long silver hair,
Slightly curled at the tips
Falling just below…

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