No, nothing, but a poem.
Words flow and ebb
and I feel them
more than the others.
No pain
No color
No light
Can be heard in my words by them.
My voice is oft ignored
the letters form a web
and I struggle more than others.
But in the world
of the poem
there are no others.
No letters
No struggles
No web.
Nothing to pull me but my own emotion
in a tide of language
spilling from my hands onto the page
warming in my pride
burning in my rage.
A poem rests when I am done
with the words of the world I had won.
I can see
No terror
No others
No ignorance.
Nothing to fail but my own heart pure.
Maybe someday I will inspire,
ignite a flame, a burning fire
in another
to see what I hear
to hear what I see.
And like those before me
on their long blackened pyres
I will leave behind all
No death to the dust
No loss to the pain
No lack of darkness
Nothing but my own poem.