The Poet

There aren’t any words left in my brain.
No stories to tell or rhymes to explain.
What talent I had got lost in the dark
I can’t find any trace of that word-fed spark.

There’s music now where once there were words—
where once there were books, now there are birds.
If I could but silence the noise in my head
I’d say all the words that scream to be said.

He sees his music, and I hear my diction,
his weapon is song, while my choice is fiction.
And we live together in our house by the sea,
I faithless to him; he faithless to me.

Our arts are our lovers; a bond left unspoken,
for the pledge of first love is not easily broken.
So we live for our lovers, my lover and I,
and our love for each other follows blandly behind.

But when he is gone, it’s too quiet in my head,
and I say nothing but things I had left unsaid.
But he hears only his music, as he dreams of those things,
while our love for each other mournfully sings.

A poet like a lover never can cry,
for words are no match for the sound of goodbye.


-Kaitlyn Medina                       [7/31/09]

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