The Poet

Do dreamers still row their boats

In the soft and misty air?

I used to be one of them –

Starry-eyed and impractical.

My fingers knew how to push a pen

But bread was not forth-coming.

So rather than starve and drop

I chose to plant my feet on earth;

At least, assured of daily bread,

Some sort of peace was well in place,

Not to mention “respectability”!

“At last he’s come to his senses!”

But I lost so much, which no one knew:

I lost the sense of who I was

(I mean the truth of who I really was).

I was so distant from myself;

I knew not how to find me. How

Can I be lost when I am here?


The stars I held so gently in my hands

Died out last night and turned to dust.

My eyes no longer shine and sparkle

(I am a man engaged in serious things).

“Balder the beautiful is dead.” I weep!

"Balder the beautiful is dead." I sleep …

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