The Poet

We find our hero,
at it again,
seated,
hunched over,
bleeding profusely
upon blank pages,
writing his life away;
at this moment,
nothing else matters;
he's not even aware
of the music
playing in the background,
Beethoven,
or is it Mozart?

And there's a woman
in the other room,
calling out his name
for the umpteenth time,
but her screaming
falls on deaf ears,
because the only words
that matter
are flowing
on the pages,
in a torrential rush,
to which he feels obligated,
to which he feels compelled,
to which he is utterly consumed;

he will not be moved,
he will not be deterred,
not by love,
not by music,
not by time;

it is his gift,
both his blessing
and his curse,
until the very last stroke,
the very last word,
the very last breath,

he writes,
he writes,
he writes...
I write,
I write,
I write.

© 2013 Joseph Powell