salt

what poet

and furthermore what bard

worth his salt 

isn’t at least

a little bit in love

with his muse?

seems a common affliction

for an artist

a love compounded by inks

and thread and a voice thickened

by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about

though, beyond all the silly ways

i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame

on you but knowing this

metaphorical blood is solely

on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot 

in this life, at least

sleepless nights on my own

yearning to rest my head on

your shoulder and knowing

that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you

with softer edges

and a smile just for me

and i broke my own 

silly little bardling heart

wide open with no help

from anyone at all

because, my love, while

the truth of the matter is

that i love you

have loved you

as a poet and a bard

to his muse

there has always been

so much more than

these words i put down on

paper, knowing you

will never read them

and i will never offer

to speak them aloud

again 

for you never were my love

though, it is bold of

me to call you so

and not just from an artistic

standpoint either

but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly

like a poet and a bard

falling in love with his muse

and mistaking it for

the real thing