The Poet’s House

At the edge of reason
Inside the poet’s house,
There lies a walnut writing desk
With dusty books upon its shelf.

 

Through the dreary window of his soul
He feels the maddening wind,
The trees that bend and break
The leaves of paper fall in his bin.

 

The wind whispers as it wanders
As it walks around the room,
It’s pockets full of pallid hands
It’s voice is full of doom.

 

We tell the truth, the truth is dark
There is no light to save,
Your words will never blossom
Your garden is a grave.

 

Will the poet listen
Or turn towards the light,
At the edge of reason
On this wild and windy night.

 

An angel breathes life into his words
He rolls them around his mind,
The musings of his restless heart
Will make it out this time.

 

The words fly fast
His pen scrawls across the page,
Back from the edge of reason
The poet has centre stage.

 

The poet is finally complete
Exhausted, he feels so blessed.
A smile forms on the poets face
His heart and soul at rest.