Old Man


The old man walks into my room

He glances over my shoulder

With a bleeding soul I write my song

As he glances over my shoulder

“What is it that you do?”

He inquires, his eyes bright,

With a smile I return,

“My very good sir, I write”

And at that moment, what transpired

Was barely something I’d desired.

With ernestness of a great degree

The old man looks into my eyes

Do not be afraid of the fool

I tell myself

Be very afraid of the wise.

And then with a quiver

From his wisdom pool

Draws the old man a river

And drowns me full.

“There is but one great poem,

And it’s already been writ,

The blue flower and the rain,

And no man shall surpass it.”

I take a deep breath and say

“I’d rather, my very good sir,

You go away, and stay away,

whilst I write

And as you leave, behind you,

do close the door tight.”

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