Words flow effortlessly, every line blends perfectly,
He is master of his word, whereas readers are followers,
The pen is his voice, expressed without speaking,
Describing without seeing, knowing but not
believing…
My poet is a mystery, always a dark floating shadow,
In his eyes sits a quiet sadness, dormant, but conscious,
Sensitive he is, loving nature and humanity, he attempts,
For life is the greatest enigma to
thee poet…
He feels he knows much, he resorts to his sword,
Where he lashes at his fears, trying to wrestle them,
Paper is his battlefield, where doubts are confronted,
And where peace is rewarded with gratitude…
The poet wants to tell it all, even the sound of silence,
For he feels that which is beyond vision and sound,
His eyes see more than light, his ears hear more than voices,
He senses the barriers, sees invisible
barricades…
Not many does he befriend, for he hates deceit and awkwardness,
He loves the sea, be it calm and tranquil, or,
Be it high and angry, for the sea is a reflection of thee,
The sea is his mirror, always changing
emotions…
Days and nights are not separated, the sun and moon united,
They are one long tune, notes waver, oscillate, but he amplifies,
Life itself is musical, be it romantic or sad, he is indifferent,
For he feels
the unknown, he reaches further, farther beyond…
The hunter recalls; the path of loneliness,
Treading on ashes and softened feathers,
He raises his head,
A distinctive countenance…
Bow and arrow; he aims,
Then chooses,
His device deadlier,
Than a hundred nooses…
Alas the sun is setting; the sky a mixture, well blended,
The hunter gathers his piercing tools, left unattended,
He returns to his hut, amidst wilderness,
Standing undefended…
His fire is dim; but ablaze for the purpose,
He eats his share of a daily reoccurrence,
The next day unrevealed,
He knows no assurance…
Dawn draws in; dressed in ghastly sequins,
The hunter rises, the winds become gusty breezes,
The ashes of yesterday are scattered,
The swirling smoke ceases…
