All the World

All the world knows a poet.
Words walk off paper
into the mind and heart.
Yet you do not read me,
the open book my soul writes
in ink of blue and violet.

Your eyes wander over the moon
that's growing fat with night's secrets.
Do you see the dark side
with its craters stuffed with dreams?

I write with a compulsion
I do not begin to understand.
Words rain down like rapid tears,
and I struggle to fit them into verse.
Read fast, my love, for the ink fades
as time is not kind to paper, so frail.

Still your eyes seek the moon.
Lips move as if in silent prayer.
Do you pray to a forgotten moon Goddess
for the power of patience, the prowess of prose?

All the world pities a poet
whose words never ring true
though the attempt at verse is thus,
a rivulet of vanity dipping across paper.
But still I write for you, lover of the moon
in hopes that your eyes will someday find me.

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Poetry and the reasons it exist are many.