The Poet
by khf
He appears in the bleached sunlight
of a fading dawn.
Tender as a poem
drifting through
weeping heartstrings.
But I am a migrant
a refugee from DarkTimes.
And my head throbs
from the cannibal
secreted
in my veins
and capillaries
feasting on my lifeblood.
Treachery lurks beneath the jagged rocks I walk on.
Barbarians
in blonde wigs
and wonderland pinafores
wave official papers.
Shout demands.
Wax sentimental
over vernal flesh
crushed under the weight
of heavy bone.
I have no heart left.
Only tiptoes
And eggshells
And an ear pressed to the ground
listening for the next shoe.
But he extends
a wounded hand.
Then gives me a place
to walk upright
in the sun of my own words
there in the safety of the shallows
where polished river stones rest.
A pause
From flinching
From ducking
From fretting about wigs
and pinafores.
He is a poet.
A sensitive.
Too,
a refugee from DarkTimes
who uses his words
like a noose.
He Knows
The Poet understands
the cadence and rhythm
of DarkTimes.
How to use precision
to butcher
with grace and elegance.
If ever I decide to
murder a barbarian
I want The Poet
to gather his poetic words
And Whisper
the truth we both know
What lies within
the dark
beating heart
of DarkTimes
is always
khf
9/30/22
by khf
He appears in the bleached sunlight
of a fading dawn.
Tender as a poem
drifting through
weeping heartstrings.
But I am a migrant
a refugee from DarkTimes.
And my head throbs
from the cannibal
secreted
in my veins
and capillaries
feasting on my lifeblood.
Treachery lurks beneath the jagged rocks I walk on.
Barbarians
in blonde wigs
and wonderland pinafores
wave official papers.
Shout demands.
Wax sentimental
over vernal flesh
crushed under the weight
of heavy bone.
I have no heart left.
Only tiptoes
And eggshells
And an ear pressed to the ground
listening for the next shoe.
But he extends
a wounded hand.
Then gives me a place
to walk upright
in the sun of my own words
there in the safety of the shallows
where polished river stones rest.
A pause
From flinching
From ducking
From fretting about wigs
and pinafores.
He is a poet.
A sensitive.
Too,
a refugee from DarkTimes
who uses his words
like a noose.
He Knows
The Poet understands
the cadence and rhythm
of DarkTimes.
How to use precision
to butcher
with grace and elegance.
If ever I decide to
murder a barbarian
I want The Poet
to gather his poetic words
And Whisper
the truth we both know
What lies within
the dark
beating heart
of DarkTimes
is always
khf
9/30/22
