I write a poem, cross it out <br />write a song with no melody and hum <br />to myself and make up a story <br />where a character steals the sun <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />I watch the jilted star swing low <br />get caught in a black satin bag <br />carried away to a jail cell with <br />no windows, and rats in the corner <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />I write a new poem, erase it <br />write a song with no melody and hum <br />to myself and make up a story <br />where the sun swings back my way <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />I watch the next night, hope everything <br />has listened to my words, hope that <br />the sun swings low, swings hard <br />lights up the shadows on the wall <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />the shadows lengthen from the light <br />cast by the streetlamps, cast by the <br />passing headlights, watch them made to dance <br />by anything but my locked up sun <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />the bars on the windows cast heavy shadows <br />the rats on the floor run at the first sign of <br />light, and this iron chair holds no tender touch <br />and the world turns again <br /> <br />and <br /> <br />I have no song for it<br /><br />Ben Paynter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-i-write-a-poem/
