Scribal Slaves
I of service to the Poet Gods,
the kinds with no hands nor feet,
but keen eyes, celestial minds
and tyrannical tongues,
chose me, a man with no dreams,
contented with what I was,
to be their scribal slave.
They stuffed their words
into my empty mind until they
irritated the outer walls.
They commanded me
to write them down.
They hovered over my bed
and wouldn’t let me sleep.
They oversaw the results
and berated me for
my incompetence.
They wouldn’t leave me alone
until they were satisfied
with my work.
But their inflexible demands
took me to a higher place
where I became a
pure part of the abyss.
I saw the universe and
felt it against my face.
I became a poet.
Then they left me alone with my
inspiration drained from me.
They floated back to
where they came from;
from the alleys, the streets,
the silence, the brooks, the earth,
the sky, the clouds, the sun,
somewhere hidden from
the eyes of my mind.
Liked or faved by...
