The last troubadour

The entire poem is a metaphor of my relationship with art, the ups, the downs, the triumphs and the losses.

The Last troubadour

 

Painted pictures on the riverbed,

Tis a shame I lived to see them die,

Time and I still ceaseless enemies

so He refused to let my visions lie,

fragile memories quietly banished

by the seasons,

summer,

winter,

fall,

ah but then winter remained to conquer all,

stripping love from these broken bones,

tearing words from flapping lips,

He left us stones and burial mounds,

naught but careless whispers and aching hearts,

I wished to steel my soul from all their groans,

the beaten sighing in mute memorial for their forgotten homes,

misbegotten riches,

abandoned dreams,

these signs that I traffic for the years trapped inside my mind,

I am a traitor then

but I have not betrayed,

a prisoner in potentia,

just a lover caught in reminiscing

and my cage lies empty

so I lay freed by the rage that tramps across the stage,

oh sage troubadour can’t we but linger here silent

just a while?