​The Poet

​The Poet
by khf
  
He appears in the bleached sunlight
                                                         of a fading dawn.
 
Tender as a poem
                             drifting through
                                                       weeping heartstrings.
 
But I am a migrant
 
a refugee from DarkTimes.
 
And my head throbs
                                 from the cannibal
                                                              secreted
                                                                            in my veins
                                                                                               and capillaries
feasting on my lifeblood.
 
Treachery lurks beneath the jagged rocks I walk on.
 
Barbarians
                  in blonde wigs
                                          and wonderland pinafores
 
wave official papers.
 
Shout demands.
 
Wax sentimental
                            over vernal flesh
                                                       crushed under the weight
                                                                                                of heavy bone.
 
I have no heart left.
 
Only tiptoes
 
And eggshells
 
And an ear pressed to the ground
                                                     listening for the next shoe.
 
But he extends
                         a wounded hand.
 
Then gives me a place
                                    to walk upright
                                                             in the sun of my own words
 
there in the safety of the shallows
 
where polished river stones rest.
 
A pause
From flinching
 
From ducking
 
From fretting about wigs
                                        and pinafores.
 
He is a poet.
 
A sensitive.
 
Too,
        a refugee from DarkTimes
 
who uses his words
                               like a noose.
 
He Knows
 
The Poet understands         
                                   the cadence and rhythm
                                                                          of DarkTimes.
 
How to use precision
                                  to butcher
                                                   with grace and elegance.
 
If ever I decide to
                             murder a barbarian
 
I want The Poet
                          to gather his poetic words
 
And Whisper
 
the truth we both know
 
What lies within
 
the dark
 
beating heart
 
of DarkTimes
 
is always
 
  
khf
9/30/22