The Poet

the life he lives
is not his own
                          save
in digital moments
seen only as
                       hobby
                       pastime
                       recreation
divertissement
by the masses who
own, but do not
know, his
                  soul

Love

for his captors
does not diminish
the weight of their
chains, nor blunt
the barbs that
                         collar
                         capture
                         leash
and control
words that
bear, but do not
speak, his
                  heart

Yet

late at night,
in the pixelated  
hours just before
dawn, they
                     slip
those words,
 ‘tween  splintered
                                  cracks
of moonlight, to
                              shudder
                              tremble
                              quake
and flame
at her feet

Until

bending, she cradles  the
blistered offering in her
                                          cool
white palms,  and
watches the words,
the igneous words,                                 
                                 untroubled
                                 unbound
                                 under
stood,
scotch and score his
immutable
                    promise                                 
into her skin

©s rogers 23 april 2010

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