The Poet I Never Was

Scrabbling down neat rows,
The ink glistens,
Always sapphire.

Descending into nought,
The deep seated cravings lower me,
Into the pools of thought.
Always alone.

In the fleeting sunlight,
Golden joy dancing on my skin,
But at night?
Gloom takes hold,
Always fright.

Sapphire ink,
Jotting down yellow sunlight and black fright.
Dyes draining down the sink.
Coagulating thoughts of might,
Let down with the delicate reality of a dink.

Then you came,
And I dipped myself in paint,
While you were content to hold me up; my own frame,
Sitting on an easel,

No more cravings,
Or thoughts tumbling,
Arranged in rows of sapphire ink.
I always thought myself the poet I never was.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015


3 thoughts on “The Poet I Never Was

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