Of The Poet

Dear friend, you've gone, disappeared amongst the dead leaves. I cast the pen aside, left it rolling on the table, across the marked paper, having left its final stains in my little book. It had captured its last verse, its last fantastic image, its last soothing rhythm, and they lay enclosed within the frail pages in that book which is a memory of the past, done and gone.

You did not die, you evolved, taking a different form, but one so utterly different from your original, that it is thought that you have indeed died. I miss you sometimes, dear friend. No longer do we sit and muse on a great deal many things, no longer do we pen the thoughts of our darkened minds, for we have turned our imaginations to other pursuits. I cannot sit alone amid a crowd with my tiny notebook on my lap, pen in hand, ready to capture and weave into words the thread of the imagination, the string of emotion; it is not the same without you. The words do not form, the imagination does not fly and all is still on the surface of the mind, that impenetrable barrier. The vision of lonely romance, of beautiful seclusion, of a spiritual tranquility has since vanished, and I miss it.

The lesson's been taught old friend: not all those who are meant to write are destined to become poets.