The Poet
You beg of
me my inmost thoughts, you plead
That I should
bare my wounds, and show the scars
So you will
not have to suffer pain, nor heed
The wind,
nor bruise your heart on shattered star,
You think
to wrest from me the lessons learned,
And you not
lift a book, nor turn a leaf,
You hope to
dread the fire, where I was burned,
You wish to
weep and yet avoid the grief,
You come to
me for words that pregnant bear
Your child
of life, a midwife all you be,
You stand
outside my agony, not share
A single pain,
yet take the child from me.
