The Poet

This piece is prety neat. It was written as an autobiography.

The Poet



Some miles across town

in a barren apartment

a naked body shivered beneath a satin sheet

ivory skin damp with perspiration

Feminine shoulders draped with mahogany curls

and red eyes that suddenly flutter open

to meet a cruel morning sun.

Lifelessly she stands and draws the curtains to,

greeted only by half full coffee cups

cold and stale like late February mornings.



A single candle is left burning

its dim light throwing shadows

giving monstrous porportion a

scattered array of second hand bric-a-brac,

polished to perfection.



Slowly she moves about the antique armoirs

and wicker bedside tables

to retrieve a notebook and pen.

She takes a clove cigarette from it's silver case,

sits, and begins yet another composition.



As rounded pen tip moves along clean paper

she creates another picture,

another image,

though not with paints or pastels,

but with words and phrases

put meticulously together

with the most delicate of hands.