One day I met the poet
by Steven Clotzman

One I met the poet in the down pouring rain.
He had lived beyond fortune, he had lived beyond fame.
I thanked him and a I praised him for what he had done
For in the years of my youth he was second to none.
For in the years of my youth he was second to none.

I asked of his travels, I asked of his friends,
Of the times that might be, and the times that had been,
Of those life ending struggles and once profound wars,
Of his meetings with kings, prophets, and whores.
Of his meetings with kings, prophets, and whores.

He spoke beyond vengeance, he spoke beyond fear.
He had lived without truth for many long years.
He was a survivor of both the bitter and sweet
But I could see in his eyes his now tears of defeat.
But I could see in his eyes his now tears of defeat.

He'd once been a critic 'til his love went away
Out of need and devotion for something to say.
And he spoke not of her passing nor her fate in the night
And he wrote not with anger nor with malice or spite.
And he wrote not with anger nor with malice or spite.

He bled on my virtue, he bled on my heart,
He broke through my silence with his now faltered art.
He cried without meaning, he cried without scorn,
And that morning did fade like the evening before.
And that morning did fade like the evening before.

I once met the poet in a down pouring rain.
He knew not of the future, he knew only of pain.
He held to no promise beyond that of life's breath
Though the last that I heard he was starving to death.
Though the last that I heard he was starving to death.

© 1983 & 2008 Steven Clotzman - all rights reserved