Paper Poet

When I first met him,
he was barely seventeen:
a paper cup coffee man,
with a collection of dirty magazines.
He was pouring his whole existence
onto a dirty Denny's place mat
and dripping his cynical rhymes
from the point where his heart turned to black.

You have the eyes of a jaded angel,
my dear. Whose tree have you fallen from?
How does one wade through the wisdom of their silence
to find yourself back where the coals still burn?

but he seemed not to notice,
my desire, questioning
wrapped in the words of his Socrates dance
his pen still quietly turning...
And when his thought was finished
the rhythm of the day
faded slowly on his brow as he
furrowed it my way.
said "would you spend a little poem with me
because words are my only home
feels like I've been forever
silent as the stone."

I see him now, 
gripping his coffee mug
the clouds in his eyes thinning,
with realizations that he's not the only one.
dear, you have the eyes of a jaded angel,
who's tree have you fallen from?
let me help you through the trials of your silence
to find the place where the coals still burn.

[words] [menu] [mail]

(c)Denise Angela Celeste, 1997.