the poet illiterate is in a weird place

his words keep singing but his feet don’t feel like dancing to the guilty rhythm

the bare nerve endings and the onslaught of salty mist is unbearable

he needs

more

and not more of the nothing he has grown accustomed too

he tires of the same unfulfilled dreams

he wants to soar but instead flounders like pelican in an oil spill

all tar covered and morose

in his travels through his dire meanderings he sees the cyclical nature of his need

and he is sore from the lack of soaring above but instead the sinking under

he needs a reason, a raison d’êtere

less insubstantial deporability

and the rebound ache of the cluster pain is enough to kill him where he lays

he has scheduled a series of humorous tales for morning perusal

but he lacks the motivation for more poetic farce

the foolish fool fools himself into fractured folly yet again

so if he seems quiet

he is trying to find his center

and if he seems more a dullard than usual

well

he is

but he loves you

he does

even if he is afraid to admit it to you or himself

he just needs to figure out why the fracture won’t heal and why it seems your are his salve

he called out to the aether and the resounding silence that spoke back shook him to his very broken core

rattled the pieces about inside of him and left him with stitches and internal hematoma

left looking like a bruised peach drained of succulence by a plague of locusts

damn near biblically battered by vellum soaked with tears and brine

maybe sleep will help

a dreamless sleep where you don’t beckon him with your sweet siren song

did you know the immense power you hold over him

his hanging on your every word

or was he at least able to hide that incrementally

the lovesick fool

so disparate in his desperation and fear of showing his calloused hand

the thought of you tracing his scars both exhilarating and panic inducing

forcing him back into his shell

a rabid little turtle more hiss than bite

sleep fool

you illiterate bastard son of insipidness and longing

close your weary eyes and let the lightning bolts of pain send you to another realm

one where you are less beast than man

where your broken wings catch thermals and you hover over the tall grace in search of prey

where the words you choke upon flow freely and are reciprocated in kind

poor floundering fool