The mind moves, the way hands do <br />To touch a beloved's face; to feel within <br />The soul, the thoughts, the skin. <br /> <br />The mind, sometimes heavy, lacks the shine <br />Of the freshly polished vase <br />The mind, saddened by its exile <br />Tries to leave the poet behind. <br /> <br />The mental, the metal, the marital, the martial <br />Worlds seem to be in fusion; <br />And then ultimately comes <br />The anguish, the joy or the confusion. <br /> <br />Footsteps around the world; <br />Standing over the Seine <br />Clouds in the water, and nothing <br />To guide me even then. <br /> <br />Like any other poet in exile <br />Destiny seemed knotted like a rug <br />Persian-perfect and that thought, <br />That absurdity finally made me smile. <br /> <br />Copyright: Rani Turton<br /><br />Rani Turton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-in-exile/
