The Plight of a Poet

I string my words together like the storytellers of old Making a web that holds nothing but the broken patterns of my every thought And though my heart has been thrown by the trickery of this art; Though my bones shake at the very thought of threading these weary needles— Needles rusted by time, my hands too numb to register the feeling— I live to bring these words to life, like paintings in the sky With stars blazing and darkness shrouding all else And for a time, I, the poet, rested in the comfort of my own words Until the hunger slowly descended from depths of the glittered sky, Rose from my open window, Seized my hands and forced upon my eyes a new awareness So by night, my eyes seek words while my body seeks language My heart torn to pieces while my fingers work until they burn Trying to regain the wonder and the truth from old memories that time has stolen away from me Keeping me hollow; Keeping my whole Trying to build upon words that may not exist in this new world Keeping me breathless; Keeping me calm And as I tremble with the knowledge I now hold, I breathe life into what seems to be without love Keeping me human; Keeping me strong My mind speaks volumes and reaches who it must Giving me a peace that can repair the tears in my hands and heart And so the reader craves The writer weaves And the poet flies Painting stories throughout the skies