A book lay open ‘fore me,

beckoning my soul to confess,

to unleash emotions repressed

by thoughts tormenting my psyche

like a wretch with Aphrodite;

beliefs untold, unknown, unspoken

breaking beneath a veneer unbroken,

a mask that mirrors fail to see

and a lock that keys fail to free –

a prisoner whose bars are pages’ lines,

whose daily food is rhythm and rhyme,

whose sentence is life without parole,

whose outfit is rags, worn and old –

still, a book lay open ‘fore me

to toss and turn my wile and wit,

straining and failing to comprehend it

while the page leaves indelible marks

within my mind like unforgettable scars;

a memory, nostalgia, or déjà vu

that remembers me remembering you,

a kiss that cannot feel the pain

of a kiss goodbye or a kiss in the rain –

a lover whose star-cross’d dream had died,

whose wake was awoken by turbulent cries,

whose words were rendered religiously well,

whose heart, once vibrant, vigorously fell –

still, a book lay open ‘fore me,

calling my soul to display,

to whisper the words that betray

by the brittle boast they reveal

like a thief who tells why he steals;

intent unveil’d, uncloak’d, unmask’d,

shaking behind an answer unask’d,

a secret without its secrecy

and a mage without his wizardry –

a pauper whose days are waterless heat,

whose nights are long with wandering feet,

whose only friend is the pied piper,

whose mind is tired, crazed, and hyper –

still, a book lay open ‘fore me

as a tempting, enticing delight

that enhances the senses and sight

thru the cadence of couplets, metered words,

and sentences sung like the weather’d birds;

a melody, harmony, and symphony

that weave thru you as they weave thru me,

a song not sung by one or two

but a song by all for one in lieu –

a king whose throne is ‘pon men’s praises,

whose kingdom is built by people he raises,

whose words are bold, concise, and clear,

whose heart is given to the common ear –

still, a book lay open ‘fore me,

telling a tale of forgotten lore,

a story of grit, glory and gore

like ink-blood spattered on cold bars,

or a dream awoken to the stars;

like a friend whose nearness soothes the soul

with words that make one’s heart feel whole,

a lover in chains who longs to be free,

or a king whose nights are spent lost in the streets –

still, a book lay open ‘fore me.