an ode to the wordsmith

hammered on a blank paper anvil,
he bent those impossible links to a chain…
wrought from the fires of his heart,
were letters ode to glory, and to pain…

held tight like the slipping sands,
in the strong shell of a sixty minute glass…
he captured life in black and white,
in words that would neither fade, nor pass…

he believed not in himself as one,
but just another medium for the passing by…
for what his worth did mean now,
would only be about what he left behind…

when crooked questions posed,
his answers were always straight in line…
that the ones who needed to know,
would find it all in the passage of time…

and here his words, i now quote,
from a letter that he had long ago wrote…

"to the wordsmith is this ode,
for these words, are not mine,
but his, that i have quote."

that kind of me

the kind of man that i once was,
i'm no longer used to being…
for this bridge that i must cross,
don't let pass, that kind of me…

let the bygones be forgotten,
another day the sun will see…
i shed my skin for this now,
true to the very bone try to be…

i've burned my wings with fire,
fallen prey to my self you see…
but if that keep me from the sky,
you don't, what i do believe...

when the light does fade away,
i could find my shelter in the dark…
at the break of mornings dawn,
fight the sun with my own spark…

cause they said to me once,
that life will not happen twice...
so here's to day, and to night,
for who i am, virtue or vice…