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 -