My Return
My return, my self again restored,
the me of poetic convictions, of lofted thoughts,
of dreams flying back to me in vivid colors
climbing back into my rusty mind and
my empty parchment that waits for my
words to quench its thirst, the one
who left it out to dry in no mans land,
waiting for the me who abandoned it;
“I’m so very, very sorry for what I’ve done.”
My idleness took me away from my dreams.
The blossoms in my mind started to wilt.
Colors began their subsequent fading.
Poetry became an intruder of data.
Poets became people with nothing to say,
nomads wandering aimlessly
with nowhere to go.
I’m back again; back among the poets,
back where data becomes a truth reinforced,
but a truth that sits alone in its nakedness,
that craves to be dressed up in its finery
or its poka dot trousers and shirts,
or to be made comforable with soothing words
and words that become liquid
and flow through the veins to the heart.
I’m a poet again and again shall I dream.
.jpg?locale=es)
