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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.

written 6/4/98