Not Lost in France

You can’t kill

a poet !

you can only

weaken him,

but

only for a

moment.

You can destroy a part

of his soul,

but not all

of it,

he’s keeping enough

of it safe and sound

for when he wakes,

well past the

midnight hour

when

others dream,

he’ll be watching

and waiting

for the words

to fall

like so many

raindrops

from the grey clouds

that obscured

his

light.

Then, when all

is still,

they’ll pounce

upon you

like

a savage animal

ready to rip the tears

from your

eyes ,

to make

your heart

understand the

joys and the pains,

make your thoughts linger,

if only for a second,

in your deepest

memories

recalling the smiles

of your childhood

when you had dreams

before they took your

illusions,

trampling them

one by one

leaving the empty

shell

that you

had to fill!

The poet is only

sleeping,

keeping his dreams

and

a

few illusions,

he’s not here

to hurt you,

and

unlike others

he’s not waiting

for the

kill.