Stories were so much easier to write
when they had nothing to do with me
when sorrows were concocted to cast upon strangers
and I played Deity.
But even that writer god
must become tormented with age
and come to long for the days when she
extracted her pain from another´s page.
Oh for years she prayed and waited
for some occurrence to punctuate her listless days
but when that fateful moment came
she found that there was nothing to say.
How easy it was, that old false despair,
her voice of mimicry as beautiful as a bird´s;
how difficult now to cut a piece from her own self
send it on the wind, never to be heard.
There is no poetic justice in life
but here is a justice for sure:
all those false sorrows which she spawned
have now returned to become hers
And unless you had heard her before
you would not know of this:
that the silence she now devotedly sings
is the saddest sound to touch those lips.
Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!