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When the Poet said farewell







POET: Idealist, dearest, I'm afraid you err.

The universe played its part, truer a story never told,

but if I may be so bold, you really should know,

I didn't just ask, to find you, catch a glance,

every fiber in me, demanded the chance.



The universe's metaphorical balls at stake,

simply a risk, it wasn't gusty enough to take.



And no, you surely weren't sure,

about whether or not to meet,

persuasion my forte, limits nearly stretched,

but come around you did, to my secret wickedly smiled,

smiling delight.



A momentary tangent, I'm sure you'll forgive,

as someone who doesn't like to write,

someone who never found the act, quite right,

you do so remarkably well, and as a literary virtuoso wrote,

fucking incredible post, idealist dearest.



And love I will express.



Yes, another truth revealed.



And it does come at a price, one which I think,

you don't quite grasp, so intuitively, intuitive as this post may be,

for you see, idealist, every time I share those truths you hint at,

I scrape the ashes of my soul, and little by little,

what little sanity is left me, diminishes right along with,

the hope as it trickles, the sands of broken dreams,

through broken hands, falling span after span, handspans or,

spans between dreams and, bitter reality.



Falling for, heart beat spaced, eternities.

Each thumpthump, thump, another lifetime lost,

in falling sand.



A connection you say, between you and me?

Why yes, completely. I can't help but agree.



Sweetest idealist, did I need someone to show my hidden secrets to?

No.

You needed to see, that there existed, at least someone in this world,

who can care enough to care, minus the stupidly blank stare,

which accompanies most discussions, with most people,

involving more than the basically senseless banality of celebrity.

Or other such equally worthless triviality.



You needed to know, in your heart, another soul a stranger no less,

can understand the emptiness and that ignorance is really not bliss,

but how can one do that, without showing the scars,

of past tribulations, without tearing off your shell of self-guarding mechanisms.



And yes you do know, some of what I know, but know also,

the road you've begun walking, I walked many years ago,

and I've encountered so many broken people, aimlessly wandering, alone.

Each time I've stopped and lent my hands, my heart, everything,

to help lift the confusion, to fix in someone else, what I pray,

to a god I am not even sure I believe in, someone one day, will

help me fix in me.



So I try and I bleed and I diminish myself more every time,

because what's broken in me, hurts less for the time, each time,

someone else begins to fit their pieces together once more.

And the hell I've lived through gains a purpose aside,

from always feeling outside of everyone else,

something more than tear my heart apart, piece by pieces.



Ego never played a part, idealist, for of that there is almost none,

you spend enough years crawling through life on bloody knees,

unable to take a deep breath, hardly able to breathe,

humility gets ground in you, much like broken glass underneath bare feet.



You never lied, no, but you did allow me to believe an illusion that never was,

which you knew, your admitted dread of calling me, of telling me says that well.



You did try, indeed and so did I.



And you are very real, no argument from me,

we've both also had more than our share,

of dirt rimed teeth.



It was neither my ego insulted, nor me,

I showed you my treasures, hidden facets most never see,

because I could taste in you the need, senses sensing the kindred spirit,

lost and adrift but far from any peace and I felt the need to shine,

what little light my flickering candle gives,

when I hold it just right.



And it wasn't enough.



So here the problem comes, because this insight of mine,

it isn't free because every fucking time, it costs me,

and it isn't something, I can share with everyone all the time,

the insight I shone into you so brightly, it's the light,

I reserve for when I find someone who feels, as if she might be,

potentially might have the flame I seldom find, the yin to the yang,

of this flame of mine.



And you revealed that wasn't the case, ashes of another dream turned reality,

a bitter taste, grown familiar.



But you tell me you seek my friendship, the continued link to an understanding,

you've found no where else, a mind keen as your own and a sharing from which most people,

can't help but abstain seeing as empathy is simply a less and less mentioned, myth.



You have a lot to offer, idealist of this I don't deny.

But you've already rejected, the secrets of a broken soul,

what I have left to offer, likely vastly different than,

what so far you have known.



And it is a lot to lose, completely I do agree.

Yet it is a loss that fits this scarred heart,

familiarly.



For it grows harder and harder to care,

callouses every which where for my heart too is bare,

and has been, time and again, bared broken and cobbled,

more or less together, most of the time, more or less.



And I do care, did care somewhere, maybe it's still falling,

with the sand through my fingers.



I never did call you a bitch, at least not out loud,

far too kind for that.



Charlie Mars is a nice find, I wrote this while listening to,

"Banging On Your Door", not entirely appropriate in its entirety,

but fitting nonetheless, equally so to your darkside which you listen one more time.



So idealist dearest, other than these too many words I've written,

I find myself at a loss of what to say, no that doesn't make much sense,

we're agreed for I've proven quite well the contrary,

but that's my story, anyway.



And I spared you some commas, here and there,

no truer a gesture of consideration could there be,

well, that is a truth relative as are most, and not entirely truthful,

it its entirety.