To Be An Artist 

I know you. The ceaseless whispers

That echo through eternal pine forest hallways. 

I can still remember the first time I listened for you.

You came sneaking down mountainsides,

Flickering and eluding through tree branches,

Setting your sights on me.

My frenzied daze would vanish, and I ‘d run

To catch you ‘twixt the lines of my pages.  Lines

Destined to be your steadfast jail bars,

‘Else, you’d whisk away.

And if I could not catch you,

You’d continue to scour and rummage the landscape

In search of the next poet. 

- Devin D’Amato -