Paupers of the written word
misunderstood, neglected,
the poet beats a lonely path
to tell his tales, dejected.

Ripped deep from out his tortured soul
bare thoughts wing home to roost.
On pages strewn with errors,
that hang him as a noose.

Do written words bring peace of mind?
Raise spectres of his fears?
Do they bring comfort, set him free?
Ne'er in a million years.

In darkened room somnolent she lies
while high above the horned moon
cast dim shadows cross the night.

So now she sleeps.
how soft she breaths,
no movement yet, she could be dead.

But winter closes, snows thaw then flow.
Earth warms, she moves,
her time has come.

Languid, stretches limbs;
She sighs, she smiles,
another year.

She stands a tip toe a ballerina fair,
looks on her world,
bestows new life.

Dew drops glisten upon
silver threads carefully intertwined.
Piece by piece, built and rebuilt,
the spider reflects on her work.

What was once a dusty door frame,
has become a work of art.
Through her tears and fears,
something beautiful arose.

Her triumph and escape,
from Hell's all encompassing gate,
finding herself within the mess,
landing safely in her new found web of life.

He sings of phones and traveling,
a voice of loneliness and blues.
He sings and wishes desperately,
that he could be with you.

Those bars and stages all lit up,
still don't let you see,
the words he sings, in baritone,
he didn't get them free.

He's paid for each and every line,
with an aching, torn up heart.
He thought he wanted freedom,
he let his marriage fall apart.

Somewhere deep in Texas,
he let her get away.
She left without a word,
there was nothing more to say.