The Poet’s Aftermath

I crave the heavy silence That settles when the iron stops its scream. While others weep, I drift in gilded light A happiness found only in the seam Between the waking world and poetic dream. They ask me "Why?" Because a poet’s mind invites the spark, Whether the fuel be wildflowers or the dark Torrent of a soldier’s final breath. I watch the rivers run with crimson depth And weave a ghost of "fear and dearness" there A persona born from salt and freezing air. I’ll build for them a high, poetic wall, Squared with the stones of memory and grace, Carved with a hand that does not fear the fall. I leave it for the kin to find a trace Of beauty in a cold and hollow place. I’ll vanish soon enough That is no tragedy, but a design. Years of discipline and tactical line Will blur into the Great Unknown's dimension; I’ll find it soon, without a shy pretension, And step into the quiet... finally mine.