The Craft (Poetry)

27th August 2017
I pick my words and craft them into people
give each a life — a name and blood and skin
a heart to beat and thoughts of being human
the choice to turn their minds to anything

They all exist — out there in some dimension
eat and breathe — they send their letters home
like friends who’ve moved away — old faces haunting
they tell their tales — my pen is not my own

Some are thieves who steal the dreams I’ve hoarded
and wear them like a coat — a gaudy show
of how things might have been in Love’s theatre
if I had heeded that last chance to go

My mouth is dry — I suck the fruits of fiction
their voices feed the longing — soothe the pain
of leaving life’s sweet pleasures to some reader
who never walked this naked through the rain