Soul

Nothing’s yours on easy terms,

Wisdom from a lyrical poet,

For once you’ve held it in your hand,

Price known or not you owe it.

 

He peers over my shoulder,

With his usual gleeful stare,

Waiting to make grand entrance,

Planning his words with care.

 

Time ticked by and added the debt,

What I would owe in the end,

When he stepped into the limelight,

He took all leaving me the debt to tend.

 

The scars are the measure of his work,

Each one has meaning and rhyme,

A story untold in full to any,

Of the ravages of the calculating time.

 

Once bared, my soul appears quite raw,

Could you answer, comfort too,

Even want to stay in proximity,

If once it was bared to you?

 

No story shall it share but the measure of response,

How it flinches when afraid of any touch,

Hides from the light and revelation therein,

A thing quite ugly, cynicism as a crutch.

Seeking escape for the passion therein,

Unable to find a suitable door,

Break no walls, crack no windows,

For in escape it would strangle the more.

 

When it sees you it wants to see escape,

A receptacle for all it feels,

Something to cling and grasp to,

A balm that soothes and heals.

 

But then reality crashes in,

The invading reminder of what I know,

If bared it would frighten and overwhelm,

Time laughs at what it doesn't show.