Some poetry seems to follow you around, a shadow.
For days, for weeks, for as long as it takes.
To find its way
into the cobweb rooms.
Slide silver under your skin.
Scratch at the itch of discontentment.
Some poets walk beside you
until their words are finally heard.
They whisper and shout
till you notice,
till the silence between their words
Until they are sure their story has changed your own,
when the scales fall from your eyes
and a new world awaits your keen sight.
Some poems refuse to leave your presence.
They know there is work to be done…
the clearing of brush
before the bonfire is lit.
Before the friends come to sit
and clutter up the silence.
And so it is with these words,
I wonder what rooms their soft hand is knocking upon,
what space inside shall they whisper to?
May they haunt you,
may they follow you,
walk beside you,
refuse to leave your presence.