Poetry

The Student

When the days are cold, I fill them with words;

When the nights grow weary, the lessons I’ve learned.

The names I’ve forgotten, the faces that fade,

They come back as ghosts in the stories I’ve spurned.

Instead I will sit with my chin in the shade,

My feet still basking beneath the yellow sun.

Out of words, out of song, out of reason or rhythm;

I have my own guild but it consists of no one.

Though one day I hope the music I’ve written

Will gather in black on a crackling page,

Or my pen writes without meaning, iridescent,

Like the lessons I learn yet can never engage.

Who asked for these stories that are so evanescent?

Since walking with strangers is a meaningless thing,

I asked for feathers so I could fly like a bird,

But I’ve forgotten how to arrange my plumes into wings.

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