The Life of a Poet
the life of a poet is lonesome and cold, his poems are timeless while he’s getting old, words on paper like pieces of him, a hunter for love, she’s letting him in, memories in novels and thoughts upon them, the hole between two lungs he fills but then, the beating of it makes him drop the cup, a strike from above so he’s looking up and into the eyes and millions of smiles but there was a tear that was haunting and fear was crawling along up the hill to his house, he was a soldier, a rebel with cause, and after an ocean, a storm and a sea, twentytwo moons, three suns and one breeze the lady was gone and he was in vain, ink and a feather were a cure for his pain, years dripping by and words final try to express the feeling he’s holding inside, but after this time, those pages and rhymes, he’s tired of waiting and writing the line, once upon a time, a girl was mine, i loved her but then i committed a crime, that’s when she left me and went up to the sky, that’s when she left me i broke down to cry, so he’s leaving too, the catcher in the rye, a deal with the devil, a last fucking lie, he’s building a stairway to heaven to get, to hold her in his arms, forever he said.
Christian Taferner, 2011
