weaving tales for fees of modest coinage.
He kept to himself; spoke rarely aloud,
preferring the quiet instead of a crowd.
His beady eyes would keenly observe all
as he sat quiet and watched from the wall.
And when he did speak it was from the heart
and all in rhyme from the end to the start.
His sentences flowed like water from a well,
he spoke with such beauty our hearts would swell.
Many a tear, though, he drew when he spoke,
and many happy hearts his cold words broke.
For he spoke with bitter words of fire,
about lost love and fading desire.
Though he never claimed his stories were true
clearly from life his sad tales must’ve grew.
But he kept himself distant from his art,
of his poems he was never a part.
And no utter of past came from his lips,
so oft we wondered why he took this trip.