He sits there wrapped in darkness
like it is a fine silken cloak
A bright burning ember surrounded
by the night. Devoured by it.
It suits him though, it really does,
the darkness that is
He is definitely a poet at heart.
But the more I look at him, the less
I see him as a poet, a writer,
paying homage to his muse,
and the more he looks like a farmer.
A man who puts his seed, his words
into the ground, and that is all he reaps
All that he has ever reaped,
nothing but all this sorrow.