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Poetry it was not the rain, which made mud
not the low rumble of a sky made mad
in the sand, it was not the sea
who held ships built by rotted hand
who passed them off to reflections in the clouds
not the tortured moon
who's soft hymns could bite
and ride the wind like venom in your twisted veins
it was the old blood
the old songs
that passage of time you find weightless in the back of your mind
it was the slow jump
the healing wound that takes lips to kiss
it will be yours to care, or kill
a poets heart, beat to a savage drum
it was your voice that held creation
traced calls inside yellow motels
scattered trails of anger and ink
vacancies of dust
it was the bad days that found us trying
the miles of fear swallowed behind
left you with a map
and it will always be yours
to write
