Noem

There is no poem for you,
 no justice to which compare.
 Words become colour of laden ink.
 Tiny, shaped abysses
 My pen outpaced by heartbeat

 is captured by this liberation.

Scene one and empty stage,

I gift myself a river.
 For you,
 pages in an unopened book,
 tales of sea and lighthouse,
 notes from my guitar,
 and a promise not to lose myself
 should I drift too far

No my dear,
 there is no poem for you, and I will share my why.
 You see,
 expectation rides on the wings of words;
 they weigh too heavy to fly