When Lost Love Drives A Poet's Pen

When lost love drives a poet’s pen, Who could ever condescend? Lost love drives us To drink or poetry— Anything to fill the hole, To vent a raging heart Penned in a solitary cage, Its bars made blackly visible When a beloved leaves! If writing out a string of words In blood or ink Helps a soul to bear the burden, Helps to relieve pain’s potion, Diluting it by sharing With a sea of drinking minds In some kind of sacred homeopathy, Then worship such a poem! If rhyme is all the order A poet’s skeletal life Can cling to, for awhile, Then celebrate such rhyme! If only pens could heal like wands! More likely, therapeia comes From sober visions in the mirror Made of words that flow from wounds, Parting the clouds that hide us From our own predicament: Then it’s time to get to work— To face another sunrise, See what Providence may bring.